


Till the Stroke of Midnight

by dogtit



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: EXTREME Canon Divergence, F/F, Infidelity, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, minor instances of self harm, more tags to be added as it becomes appropriate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-08-29 01:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: Thirteen years after her rescue from her step-family and their mysterious monster, Cinderella finds herself drawn back to where it all began and discovers a bitter and broken mess of a woman among an impossible pumpkin patch. With the Darkness staining Aqua's heart, and war on the horizon in more than one way, Cinderella finds herself between the duties of a queen and the desires of her own heart.





	1. Foreward

Shortly after I got my hands on and played through _Birth By Sleep_ in 2012 (I know, two years after its release like—what the fuck??? In my defense, I was a kid and like, broke, so.) like many a young femslash thirsting fool, I latched onto the what, 5 minute long interaction between Aqua and Cinderella and went “she touched a butt, I ship it!” and wrote, like, a page and a half of this. There was like, one other fic on FF.net at the time (that's actually been deleted, I think, rip) so I was like, “oh, what have I got to Lose???”

And then I just kind of forgot about the whole thing and set it aside. Little did past Dori know that 6 years later I'd pick it up again and over the year crank out almost 100k words on a rarepair?!?! Wild. Anyway, before you continue reading onward, I do want to mention like. A couple of things just so I don't have to pop in every chapter with a note (Outside of trigger warning reminders of course).

  * I can't stress this enough that, while some story beats remain close to canon, a LOT of this is canon divergent. A lot of the lore is uhhhh how do you say, Loosely interpreted. Kingdom Hearts has never had the most concrete rules established before the next game inevitably throws in a loophole thats actually always existed SURPRISE, so I don't feel _as_ guilty as I probably should for just kind of rolling with what I want. You're about to read a fic about one of Nomura's anime ocs kissing Disney's Cinderella, your suspension of belief about ANYTHING should be checked at the door.
  * The tags are there for a warning. There _is_ graphically depicted violence both by and against the main characters, minor characters die and not in a very pretty way, and there's a great deal of past child abuse and the ramifications thereof. I don't like being _extremely_ explicit with that kind of dark material, not in a fic like this, but it's also not completely offscreen. There's also some pretty (personal) depictions of mental illness and PTSD on both sides. Please be aware of what you, yourself, can stand before proceeding on.



BIGGEST yeehaws to my very good friend and beta [KIBITZER](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER) for helping me edit this goliath monster, and also for being a soundboard to yeet ideas at and have them validated or made them hurt even worse. You're a demon and I love you. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

 


	2. Black Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll remember the sad frightened noises / of an old friend who dreamt once of storms on the ocean / and black eyes looking up from below

It's been thirteen years.

The thought makes her put a hand to her lips in quiet shock, when she realizes what she's thinking. It makes her blink away the tears and causes her heart to flutter wildly in her chest. Cinderella isn't quite sure how she hasn't noticed the passage of time. She knows, perhaps more than anyone, that the time spent on this world is as fragile as a glass slipper. At any moment the world can shatter.

It can be from a simple mistake, someone tripping. The glass slipper flies into the air—somersaults—and lands with a crash and everything is gone. The first time, she was fortunate enough to have a spare.

The second time she was not so fortunate and lost her heart.

(During her etiquette lessons—never-ending, as Cinderella was not born into such high nobility—there is a moment accompanied by her heart pounding and squeezing, a moment of horror as she thinks there is something she needs to remember. But is gone, and the moment is over so quickly that she wonders if it is a dream.)

Since getting everything back (her mice, her prince, her home), Cinderella has done her best to remember the feeling of nothingness. For the few scant years afterwards, she had nightmares, and there were nights where Charming's kiss could not soothe the ache in her chest. For Cinderella knows the sting of a whip, the burn of a fire poker, and the claws of the Darkness.

She is a princess in two ways; by marriage and by fate. It's precisely the reason why she can grieve, truly so, for her step-family. She can still hear them in their final moments, voices swallowed by the darkness that lurked inside the winding corridors of their hearts. Cinderella, as she's been told, has no such corridors.

Charming does. She has seen them, in the ugly twist of his mouth as he receives news of unrest in his kingdom, of rapes and murders and an oncoming war that he thinks Cinderella is unaware of. She is a princess, so surely she knows not the art of War, or of death. There are armies that serve the purpose of defending her, protecting her. This isn't something she need concern herself with. Not truly.

(She is seated at dinner, alone, when the moment strikes again. Her pounding heart, bleeding nostalgia, pleads with her to remember. For all her smarts, she cannot—though when she blinks she thinks she sees a body, a figure, a flash of blue—but the face is unfamiliar. Wholly so.)

Charming can't know, shouldn't know, will never know, that he has died once. They all have. Sucked into the void of the Darkness, taken into sleep where the claws couldn't touch them; Cinderella had been the only one of her world left to awaken and to remember the hollowness of its loss. The world was put to rights again, of course, but only just; she is the lone veteran of a battle she didn't even truly win.

Her ever-after is happy most of the time. At the very least, as a woman in a man's world, she lucked out. Aside from the years spent under Tremaine's vindictive thumb, her life has been...easy. And before the magic wand weaved her a gown of silver thread and glittering jewels, her life had been, even at the bleakest, simple. She had her own little corner and her own little chair and a wealth of imagination not even Tremaine could extinguish. And of course she had the mice, and her chores, like feeding the chickens and tending to that wicked cat and overlooking the pumpkin patch.

(On Charming's arm, seated against red velvet cushions as they are driven to a scenic spot for a picnic, she thinks of the pumpkin coach. And thus the moment comes once more, a third time—she sees the carriage twisted and wrong, come alive with gnashing teeth and spewing fire. She remembers being thrown to the ground, beaten by the vines, and awaiting the final blow—but then a body, warm and soft with the contrasting planes of firm muscle, covering hers and taking the hit like bloodletting armor—the smell of charred flesh—but the memory ends there and she's left feeling as if a sugary treat had been snatched away just as she was reaching for it. She does not quite leave bruises on Charming's arm, but he makes her drink half her weight in water, concern deepening the frown lines in his face.)

As the cinder-girl, she'd had routine. Now her life is nothing  _ but a _ routine; awaken, attend the royal meetings with Charming and the lot of nobility the cinder-faced-girl inside her sneered at, and then go to bed.

Routine.

She is stuck in a quagmire, and it's no one's fault but those long dead—and her own, perhaps. Stagnant and unable to move on from what she's experienced, what she's seen, with no one but Godmother to vent to. And she's been pulled under, and kept in a stasis where she has not aged (except she has).

Cinderella thinks that, for today, the routine must end.

So instead of silks and jewels, she dresses in a simple frock with a beige colored skirt and light bodice. She ties an apron and it is snug around her waist (and she frowns a bit at this). A white bandanna in her hair; simple black slippers. She decides against makeup, and wishes fondly that she had a pinch of ash to dust her cheeks with.

For the cinder-girl is who she is (who she  _ was _ ) and for this moment, Cinderella wants to be herself again.

 

*

 

In the market, no one recognizes her. It's been so many years (has it really?) and no one seems to recall that their queen was once a part of them. That once upon a time she traveled the roads and bartered and haggled, but never to deprive, only to be fair. The market stalls are the same, she notes, but not their caretakers.

(Was it simply age and retirement that changed them? Or did they not return to the Light, when all was said and done? Cinderella doesn't know, and it does scare her, very much so.)

The bakery is open and she pays for a loaf of bread, a day old to save on her coin, and farther down she buys a wedge of cheese, simple and cheap, and feels a thrill in her heart as she does so. She snags a flask of water as well, for today this—this simple meal of bread and cheese and water—will be her lunch, as it was thirteen years ago.

The streets are cleaner, aged older, but still the same and Cinderella feels at peace for the first time since the ball.

(She stumbles, a knot in her throat. Here, again! The moment comes and pulls at her mind—blue, she sees, clearest blue. The color of hair, the color of eyes, the color of the robe of an old woman granting her wish. The color that defines someone who smiles at her, and oh so much  _ blue  _ but she cannot recall the memory further.)

Shaken and pale, Cinderella pauses at the corner and waves to a passing carriage. She squeaks as dirt flies up to sully the hem of her frock, but her smile curls her lips besides. She laughs, gaily, and pays no mind to the odd looks she gets. Instead, she walks on and on, creeping toward a place none dare to go.

She goes home.

The gates are locked, the walls covered in ivy. Cinderella searches around, finds a weak spot from her childhood in the corner of the wall near the old oak tree, and she scuttles through it. It leaves her hands dirty and dusty, the knees of her skirts stained, and Cinderella takes some pride in it as she dusts off her palms. She finds a familiarity in it all, in the towering house with its grimy walls and a courtyard carpeted with rotting leaves from the previous autumn.

She tries to enter the house, finds it locked. Cinderella solves this with a pair of hair pins and a skill she picked up after becoming queen, because she won't be at the mercy of anyone's lock and key again, and opens the creaking doors. It's dark, and empty, and quiet, only covered furniture and dust and various bits of refuse remaining. She steps in, leaves smudges of her shoes on the floor, and thinks of how terribly she wants to clean them. She puts her hand to the staircase—

The moment hits her like a fist and grabs hold of her heart. She can see herself, superimposed on trailing motes of light, phantasmal, descending the steps. Only, perhaps, this is not Cinderella the Queen, the Princess in hiding; it's the cinder-girl who donned the mantle of the two. Memory swallows her, and Cinderella allows herself to watch, a voyeur of her own heart.

“Your Grace,” the cinder-girl on the stairs cries, “Please, wait!”

And there is a stranger, waiting at the bottom of the steps. Fair of skin with hair as blue as her eyes, the woman steps up and bows; offers a hand.

The cinder-girl pauses, shocked at such a gentlemanly gesture, but then takes that hand. The woman brings it to her lips, crooked in amusement, and gives the back of her knuckles the lightest of kisses. And then guides her down the stairs to her future.

“Oh,” says Cinderella, understanding.

Then the slippers of glass, one in her pocket and the other on the floor in pieces. The woman who had kissed her hand thanking her for teaching the art of believing to a brooding man with a darktouched heart. Then leaving—finally leaving—the house.

“ _ Oh _ ,” says Cinderella, breathless.

She follows the trail of memories, helpless against their pull, and they guide her feet to a well traveled path. There used to be a fountain here, she thinks in despair, but no longer. Just old and tired rubble, a stone bowl empty and lined green with algae. The cinder-girl walks faster, and so Cinderella follows. As she breaks through to a clearing, she sees the pumpkin patch overgrown. Something wicked and purple-dark oozes like a sore in the middle, trailing heady smoke into the afternoon light. Cinderella finds it hard to breathe, watching her phantom and the darkness.

Then the cinder-girl is attacked, and the three women who ruled her life cackle and laugh as she falls, limp and bruised, to the ground. She is not dead, nor is she unconscious; but perhaps that is the worst of all, for she cannot move and yet she can feel everything.

The monster turns on the cinder-girl once more. As a ball of flame falls towards her, the stranger intervenes; she takes the blow instead, letting the flames sear and burn her own flesh. The cinder-girl looks up into a face that crumbles with pain, but no sound is uttered; arms are secure and steady around her waist.

Tremaine and her daughters laugh again and await the death of the cinder-girl and the stranger with her pretty blue eyes. This will be their last act of cruelty, and it truly is—for the pumpkin carriage monstrosity they have erected burns them alive, and they are taken into the dark.

The last sight the cinder-girl has of the woman is the sight of scorched skin, bright red. The cinder-girl runs away at the woman's bequest, and not an hour later, she is escorted to the castle and to her future.

(She never got to say goodbye.)

But now, in this impossible pumpkin patch, Cinderella, as herself and older for it, can see a body among the darkness. The clothes are filthy, ragged and worn and little more than scraps. It is the body of a woman, from the curves and hollows that Cinderella shares, and it is a woman that Cinderella thinks she knows. Her hands are shaking; she falls to her knees beside the body and, as the smoke clears fully, brushes a lock of hair out of a bruised and battered face.

“Aqua.”


	3. Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've grown tired of this body / cumbersome and heavy body / i've grown tired of this body / fall apart without me, body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied past child abuse.

The name leaves her cracked throat without her intention. She is different, this Aqua. The stranger in Cinderella's memories had been fair skinned, but healthy. This Aqua's skin resembles that of fish bones picked clean, with only deep bruising beneath sunken eyes to pose color. Even her hair is only the faintest bit of blue at the roots; silvery white strands fall around her neck and shoulders, strands of cerulean peeking in and about. Her lips are chapped and bloodless and she shakes and shudders, her breathing rapid and feverish.

“Aqua,” Cinderella manages again, putting the full of her hand against Aqua's brow.

Her eyes snap open at the touch. Cinderella sees bright and burning gold for a moment, before the pupil shrinks to the size of a sewing needle's point and Aqua smashes them closed again with a deep hiss, wrenching her head toward the dirt.

“ _ Too bright,”  _ she rasps in agony, her nails digging in soil and pumpkin roots.

Cinderella trembles, but she lays her hand against the center of Aqua's back. Aqua tenses, hissing again, muscles bunching beneath sallow skin like she means to fight. She's more a wounded child than a woman of flesh and bone; Cinderella's heart clenches in agony. She rubs, gently, feels Aqua's heart throbbing hot and hard against her fingers. There's a stench that clings, faintly, like burnt sugar; familiar from when Cinderella had been stranded in that dark castle where the witch Maleficent had spirited her away to.

Cinderella is sensitive to it. The darkness. How it feels. How it writhes in Aqua, banking along Cinderella's hand like bristling fur or dark waves of water.

“It's so bright here,” Aqua snarls, mashing her face against the dirt. She chokes and sobs, shuddering. “It's so loud.”

And at that Cinderella removes the headscarf she'd tied into her hair, folds it so it's less triangular and more flat.

“Lift your head, Aqua,” she instructs in a weak voice. “I'm going to put this over your eyes.”

The moment she stops touching her, Aqua stops her squirming. There's something dangerous in the way she holds herself so still. Something heartbreaking, too.

“Where am I?” she demands. “Who are you?”

“I...my world,” Cinderella says, lamely. “My...old home. The pumpkin patch. I'm—”

“Cinderella,” Aqua says on her own. She turns her head from the dirt and in Cinderella's direction, the motion sinuous and not quite human, only to wrench her head back with a wet growl. Her eyes hadn't even opened.

“ _ Bright,”  _ she whispers through grit teeth.

“I know, darling.” The endearment slips off her tongue, and Cinderella slowly reaches out. “I have—the cloth should help...”

Aqua's body coils with tension, but she allows Cinderella to drape the cloth over her eyes. Lets her tie it tightly. Lets her put a hand to her bared back, again, to stroke over the skin. There's no scar tissue, Cinderella notes, from the blast of fire Aqua had taken in her stead so long ago. Nothing at all to suggest that she was the same stranger from beyond, who had thanked Cinderella so ardently, despite being the one to help Cinderella down the stairs and into that chair and out of that house and into her ever-after.

“Hello?” Aqua snaps the word, desperation coloring the edge. “Are you—is this real?  _ Hello?” _

“Yes, I—I'm here. I'm here with you, right now.” Cinderella starts to rub small circles again. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go quiet. I'm here. You're here.” She swallows hard. “Can you stand?”

“...Yes.” Aqua pushes herself up on hand and knee, then stands. Her limbs tremble and her mouth twists, ugly, showing bright white teeth. Teeth, Cinderella notes, that are sharp enough to be fangs, here and there. Cinderella rises with her after a moment, her hand moving to Aqua's bicep, causing Aqua to draw a sharp and startled inhale; Aqua's right hand flexes into a fist, the left's fingers twitching sporadically.

“It's me,” she says quietly. “Only me.”

“I...” Aqua trembles as they straighten themselves out. “I don't know if you're real,” she says harshly, and her hand flies to the blindfold. Jerks it down. Opens her eyes and again Cinderella sees the gold, then the fracturing pain. Silently, she helps Aqua put the cloth back around her eyes. The tension doesn't go away, not a bit.

The darkness continues to seethe. Cinderella wonders if she should stick around. Maybe, something like instinct whispers, she should leave Aqua to stumble in this pumpkin patch. Because maybe Aqua is gone and in her place is a woman that  _ looks  _ like her, sounds like her, but maybe it's the beginning of a clever trick. Something to knock down the house of cards she's built her life on again—again?

“I have,” Cinderella begins, haltingly, “I have bread. Cheese, water. It's not much, but...”

“I haven't...eaten in...” Aqua's voice sounds like sand crunched underfoot, dry and husky from disuse. It's not that pleasant, truth be told, but there's a reason why, and Cinderella feels herself soften. Surely this is no trick to snare the light, Cinderella rationalizes.

“Come with me. Here, take my hand. I have you.”

And Aqua reaches out with both hands. One clamps over Cinderella's, the other seizing her forearm. They tremble against her skin; dirt cakes around and under nails blunted and uneven. Chewed off from anxiety, Cinderella recognizes.

She leads Aqua step by halting step into the darkness of the manor. It smells musty and the air is stale and dust-coated; Aqua doesn't say a word against it. Might even relax, a bit, to get out of the sun. Still, she seems alert and prepared for battle, for war; every creaking floorboard is snarled at, head swinging back and forth to triangulate and make note of where each new sound comes from.

Cinderella brings them into the kitchen. It's bare save for a single chair and footstool in a corner. No cookware or even a table, and the fireplace has no ashes to dip her fingertips in for some sense of familiarity. It is far more dim without shrouding them both in total darkness, so there's that, at the least. Cinderella sits Aqua on the chair, slowly, then sits on the footstool after.

“This is real,” Aqua says quietly. “Isn't it?”

“It is.” Cinderella draws out the loaf of bread from her cloth satchel, and tears off a sizeable chunk. Something tells her that bringing a sharp blade around Aqua isn't wise. “Would you like cheese, too?”

“I...don't know.”

“Alright.” She sets the bread on her lap, and takes one of Aqua's hands again. She presses the chunk against her twitching, dirty fingers. “Then we'll go slow.”

Aqua takes a cautious bite of bread—and sags, with a sob caught low in her throat. She chews slowly, thoughtfully, nostrils flared.

“There was never any bread,” Aqua says once she's swallowed her bite. “Nothing felt...solid. Felt like ashes. Sand. Dust. Tasted worse.” She takes another bite, fearful, and her shoulders shudder. “It's real.”

“Yes,” Cinderella breathes, her own chest tight and hollow at once. “Aqua...what—”

_ “Don't.”  _ The words are growled. “Not yet.” Then, softer, shaken: “I can't. Not yet. Don't make me speak of it.”

Her other hand, empty and free, waves in the air. Trembles.

“Water?” Cinderella asks, but Aqua shakes her head harshly. Cinderella blinks, slowly, then takes Aqua's hand in her own. The trembling doesn't ease one bit, but Aqua holds her hand tight, and takes precise little bites of her bread slowly, as if reacquainting herself with the act of eating. She finishes the chunk quickly, but not too quickly, and accepts another piece when Cinderella tears it free, though her expression—what Cinderella can read, at least—goes thunderous when Cinderella needs to use both hands.

She even accepts a few sips of water and crumbled, squished tears of cheese to go with her bread. Cinderella's lap is full of crumbs and cheesecloth and food, but when half of everything is gone Aqua stops accepting.

“Eat.” Aqua leans forward in the chair. “...Please.”

“Of course,” Cinderella says after a moment, before tucking in. “It's not—it's not poisoned,” she adds desperately after swallowing her first mouthful of semi-stale bread and cheese.

“I know that,” Aqua quips, not unkindly but not necessarily kindly either. Her voice is a little better, but it's still ragged at the edges like badly forged metal, sharp enough to cut if Cinderella allows it. “I couldn't smell poison in it. I wouldn't have...put it in my mouth otherwise.” A beat between them, and sharing that seems to have made Aqua angry again as she bites out,  _ “Eat,” _ and grips the arms of her chair.

Cinderella eats the rest, of course. She tries to offer the last bits to Aqua, unsuccessfully, because her own appetite has been dampened, but Aqua refuses every time and only gets more restless when Cinderella pushes—so she relents.

A wounded animal, Cinderella thinks of her. She'd encountered it before. Long ago, after a particularly bad storm while Tremaine and her daughters had been away at their summer cottage—“ _ With competent maids,” Stepmother had sniffed— _ Cinderella had woken to the sound of restless animals in the background, and the mice fleeing to her room in terror. When she'd stepped out, she'd seen a sharp-taloned hawk with a fractured wing. It wouldn't stop shrieking and spitting at every kindness shown because of its own fear; she'd tried to sing to it, speak to it, calmly show that she meant no harm, but the wild animal hadn't accepted a bit of help.

She'd stayed by its side until the screaming stopped. Not that it changed its mind, in the end. Its grave, the marker long since gone now from years, still sits by the chicken pen.

“Where do you want to go?” Cinderella asks gently, setting her hands on Aqua's knees. She starts under the touch, before her hands cover Cinderella's own and grip. Not tight enough to hurt at all, but to tether.

“I don't...” Aqua inhales. “I don't have anywhere.”

“Then would you accept an invitation?” Cinderella asks this carefully. “I assure you, there's more than enough room at the castle.”

A snort. Aqua's lips twitch at the very corners. Something sardonic, and not quite a smile, tugs at her mouth but she either has no energy to let it free or she simply doesn't want Cinderella to see. Cinderella waits for the answer before she insists on Aqua staying; she can sense, keenly, that wherever Aqua has been before has been a prison, and Cinderella has no intention of throwing her into a different one after she's only just escaped.

(It should gall her, to think of the castle as any sort of prison in the first place. 

It does not.)

“If...it wouldn't impose,” Aqua says, uncertainly, like the words are foreign and manners are a far off memory, a scattered dream.

“Certainly not. My home is,” Cinderella pauses a bit, not sure if calling it Aqua's as well would be insulting or welcome, before saying softly, “open to you, always.”

“Thank you,” Aqua whispers. The first bit of softness she's shown yet, and Cinderella beams in return.

“Well, then. Let's get you something to cover up with.” There's quite a bit of skin showing from natural wear and tear; her stockings have holes in them, her sleeves gone, even a glove is missing from one hand. She's barefoot, too. Cinderella feels a very sharp agony at seeing Aqua reduced to such a battered, almost pathetic and unkempt state, but it's not new; this feeling has bloomed inside of her the moment she saw Aqua in the pumpkin patch, with her hair and skin burned to white and darkness writhing in her heart.

Aqua's lips purse to a thin line. Her jaw flexes, but she says nothing and allows Cinderella to help her up from the chair. From the sitting rooms Cinderella whips off the dusty sheets and shakes them out as much as she can. They're dirty, and plain, but it's all she has to work with for now; draping them over her shoulder, she takes Aqua's hand, and they slowly ascend the creaking stairs.

She leads Aqua to her old room, the annex her father had built long ago for extra storage once he'd acquired a new wife and two new daughters.  _ Not new, _ Cinderella tells herself sharply—a reprimand, as she had never been replaced in her father's heart.

The room opens steadily. It, unlike the rest of the house, is barren. Cinderella had taken everything with her when she'd moved out, put it in a guest's quarters that would never be touched again in remembrance from whence she came.

“Oh,” she realizes, with a sharp breath.

“What?” Aqua's voice rasps over her shoulder.

“I—I forgot. I left my sewing things at the castle.” Cinderella flushes a bit, and then feels her blood cool. “There...there might be something or other left in the master bedroom.” She'd stolen away pincushions and needle and thread in hidden places in every bedroom, should an emergency happen with a dress or set of skirts and she had nothing in her apron at the time.

She's grown. Tremaine and the girls are gone. Their rooms should be untouched. Hopefully.

Aqua says nothing as they carefully descend the stairs. On the third landing is the master bedroom, and it would make little sense to search through her step-sisters' rooms when Tremaine's room is the closest. The door is closed, and even looking at the copper knob, aged green without her—without  _ anyone  _ to tend to it—makes her stomach twist into knots. Cinderella reaches out and closes her fingers around the chilled metal. She turns, and the knob only gives a quarter.

“Locked,” she says, breathless with relief.

“Move,” Aqua commands quietly, and draws Cinderella back. In a flash of grey light, a weapon—a Keyblade, Cinderella's mind supplies—materializes in her grasp. She touches the tip to the door and loudly unlocks it with magic. The Keyblade vanishes in the second instant and Aqua shakes out her hand with a grimace, like touching it even for a moment stung her with heat.

Cinderella opens the door after a moment. And stops at the threshold. She can almost see Tremaine and Lucifer in the gloom, the bare bedframe now plush with mattress and sheets where her step-mother sits and strokes her pet with glowing eyes. Speaking cruel and cutting words, pruning any thoughts of rebellion without ever raising her voice and—

Aqua steps into the room. “It reeks.”

“What?” Cinderella asks after her, brain fried numb.

“It's dark.” Aqua's lip curls. “Stinks like the dark, too.”

Oh. Cinderella purses her lips again and takes a breath for courage. Then she walks in after Aqua, and ignores the memories as they roil upwards from the back of her mind, trying to scrape her heart raw with fear. She'd be a liar if she claimed to be composed from this, but that doesn't mean she hesitates, either.

She moves to Tremaine's old dresser, the mirror covered with fabric and the countertop coated in a thick layer of dust. She drops to her knees and peeks around, spying a little dip in the wood hidden by the sturdy leg, a hole chewed by her friends. She reaches in and her fingers brush worn velvet. She takes the pincushion, two spools of thread and—miracle of miracles—a small pair of sewing scissors. By the time she stands up her heart has calmed its panicked cadence, and even the room seems a little brighter.

Even Aqua looks better. Maybe food and Cinderella's settled nerves have—

No, no. It's the dark. Aqua soaks it in like a flower feasts off the sun; shadows curl into Aqua's own, drawn in like a magnet. Her sallow skin grows a bit of color, the muscles in her broad shoulders and arms gain a hint of definition. Cinderella clutches her materials to her chest and sucks in a sharp breath.

“That woman,” Aqua says, breaking the quiet with her cautious, venomous words, “was eaten up. Did you know?”

“Eaten up?”

“By her own darkness. There was so very much of it. It clung to this,” she waves a hand around the room she can't see, “even after it swallowed her up.”

“Stop,” Cinderella asks quietly.

“The two girls went the same way. Maybe it was their mother's darkness that got them, too. Or their own. Hard to tell. Not that it matters, they got what they des—”

“Aqua,  _ stop _ . They're gone, and when you speak about them like that—” Cinderella swallows, hard, and squares up her shoulders. “It's completely disrespectful to me.”

“To  _ you?”  _ Aqua's head swings to face her, mouth parted with shock. “They despised you. They wanted to kill you. Over a shoe. And you're defending them?”

“I can never forgive what they did to me,” Cinderella admits softly. “I can never forgive them for the years they stole from me, or their words, or the pain that they caused. And I think I would be doing myself a disservice if I tried. But I've tried to forget them. I've tried to lay them at peace. For my sake, for theirs. And I grieve, yes. I will always grieve what could have been, what was, and what I'll never get. And that's...well, I'd like to think I'm okay with that. Maybe I'm not, but right now, it's not about me.”

Aqua simply stares at her, mouth curving into a frown as it closes.

“So please,” Cinderella says, “don't speak of my family that way again.”

Aqua simply bobs her head after a pregnant pause, and then allows herself to be lead by the hand downstairs and out into the sunlight. She scowls and grimaces and hisses, but doesn't say another word. It takes a while for Cinderella to manage something that's  _ like  _ a dress; there's simply not enough fabric and thread to make something suitably pretty, and she has none of Aqua's measurements. And the sewing scissors, while fine enough for thread, are too small to make clean cuts in the fabric.

And, frankly, it's been years since she sewed anything for herself.

But soon she has a passable dress for Aqua; no sleeves, a little crooked, the bodice seems a little too stuffy on a woman with such graceful limbs—but it's the best she can do on short notice and in three hours of work. Of silent work, at that. She's a little tense.

“Is it still too bright out?” Cinderella asks.

“Yes.” Aqua actually answers out loud. “The sun...hurts. The blindfold's working, but it's...not something I can describe.”

“Well, then. Don't force yourself to.” There's enough left over from the second sheet and scraps of the first that Cinderella manages to make a bit of a hood and attaches them together. She throws it over Aqua's strong shoulders and flips the hood, smiling when it casts Aqua's face in shadow. Enough that she relaxes, just a bit.

“Now, let me just,” and she uses a thin scrap and some artful knotting to help secure it, “there. Does that help at all?”

“Much,” Aqua whispers. Her tone is gentle.

Cinderella becomes aware, and rather quickly, at how closely they stand together. It's embarrassingly intimate in a strange way, and Cinderella steps back to put space between them. She takes Aqua's hand.

“If you wouldn't mind,” she says quietly, “unlocking the gates?”

Aqua summons the Keyblade again and soon they are out on the roads once more. She links her arm in Aqua's to help guide her. She can still feel that darkness, the unchecked tide of it swimming just beneath Aqua's skin, but forces herself to ignore it. Especially as they get out into the streets proper, as the sound of life blossoms all around them; vendors calling out their wares, carriages trotting up and down the roads, horseshoes clacking against cobblestone.

Aqua seems to soak it in. “Can we walk for a bit?” she asks in that same soft voice, sounding so much like the stranger Cinderella had once known. “The light hurts, but I need it to. It's so different here.”

“Then we'll walk as long as you like,” Cinderella says. “As long as it takes.”

So they walk together, charting a path all around the city. They take breaks sometimes when it's quiet, and always in shade. They sip from the flask of water until it's all gone, like the cheese and bread. Her feet ache slightly, as do her legs, and she can only imagine the strain on Aqua's own bare feet, but Aqua says nothing in complaint. The sky is orange and pink when Cinderella squeezes her arm.

“I think we should go to the castle, now,” she says.

“Yes. It's almost dark.”

“Oh! However did you know?”

“It...it doesn't hurt as much,” Aqua says haltingly. “Still, a little bit. But not as much.”

Cinderella checks what bare skin is exposed from the dress and hooded cloak, and finds no stinging red burns. Perhaps it has to do with the condition that's left Aqua with her white hair, her golden eyes so sensitive they need to be covered. In any case, Cinderella makes this note; if she is to take Aqua out, it'd be best to do so in the late afternoon.

The street lanterns are just being lit by the time Cinderella and Aqua arrive at the palace. The guards stationed there recognize her in an instant, and though they cast her companion an odd and suspicious look, they don't make much fuss.

“Gregory!” bellows the portly guard with the thick beard as he turns around to shout into the opened doors, “Her Highness has returned!”

Aqua's arm has gone tense against her own, every muscle seemingly locked. Cinderella chances a look and sees her upper lip twitching, curling off sharpened teeth every now and then. Her nostrils flare and she quakes briefly.

“Are you alright?” Cinderella whispers quickly.

_ “Loud,” _ is the hissed reply. Followed with a tight, “He reeks,” thankfully unheard.

“I'm sorry,” Cinderella says, both to Aqua and to the guard, “but if you could refrain from shouting? My friend has very sensitive ears. She requires a bit of rest.”

“I'd say you both do,” the guard harrumphs around his thick, bristled mustache. “Who is this friend of yours?” And before Cinderella can reply, he turns his head again and yells, “Damnation, Gregory, call off the bloody search! Her Highness has returned!” He looks Aqua over head to toe, and says, “With a stray.”

An actual growl rolls out of Aqua's throat. Cinderella presses against her side tighter, her hand vanishing under the cloak to rest, skin to skin, against Aqua's bicep. So much strength and fury coiled in that muscle, under skin so soft—Cinderella shakes her head with a rapid clearing of the throat.

“We'll be going in now,” she says instead. “And please, keep your voice down.”

“Righto, Your Highness. Beggin' your pardon. Where'd you like us to escort the stray?”

“My _ friend _ ,” Cinderella corrects with a bit of sharpness, mystified by the guard's rude attitude, “is not to leave my side. I just said she was unwell.”

“Aye, Highness. Well then, I'll escort the both of you. Might want to watch your step, His Majesty is in a snit over you.”

He leads them forward, snickering to himself. Cinderella feels embarrassed, quite suddenly. The world seems to tilt beneath her feet; she is no stranger to mockery or schadenfreude, after all. He sounds like Anastasia, for a moment. The comparison feels like a punch in the gut.

The darkness under Aqua's skin surges and lashes; a grunt turned snarl is forcefully caught behind her teeth.

_ “Reeks,”  _ Aqua manages. Her hands are curled into tight fists. “No right to talk to you like that.”

Oh, well. That just serves to embarrass her further, Cinderella thinks. She feels much like a scolded child in front of a friend—which is quite a new feeling for her, all things considered. She'd wanted to reclaim herself, hadn't she? The scullery maid who sat by the fire and wished so terribly to be free from the house that should have been hers by birthright—the girl who exists inside of Cinderella still, who'd been the only identity she'd had before she'd become a princess two-fold. She'd wanted her back, for a day, for longer; she just didn't expect to get all that came with being one of lesser station. Perhaps she's been spoiled.

Guards flank the hallways as she and Aqua are escorted through the castle. Gregory, the captain of the guard, looks ever so relieved to see her unharmed, and smiles kindly enough at them both that the sting of humiliation eases up.

“We've informed His Majesty of your return. He'll be with you after his dinner with the ambassadors of—”

“Ah—I forgot that was tonight. Oh, oh no, is everything alright—”

“Of course, Highness,” Gregory says calmly. “Shall I escort you and your companion to sit in comfort? I'll have some dinner brought to the both of you.”

As he leads them off into a side hall, Cinderella sneaks a glance at her friend, relief flooding her when she sees Aqua's face placid once more. There's still plenty of tension in her, like she's one loud noise away from snapping, but Cinderella simply pats her arm and keeps them locked elbow-in-elbow. It's not too much longer until Gregory leads them into a sitting room, and Cinderella steers Aqua to the chaise and sits them both down.

“He's bright,” Aqua says, jerking her chin in Gregory's general direction as he stays at the open door, waiting down a maid to quietly ask that a meal be sent. “Quiet. Good.”

“You know,” Cinderella says, hearing a brief,  _ And do bring Her Highness and our guest some warm tea,  _ from the captain, “I think I quite agree.”

“Not like the other man.” Aqua looks furious just mentioning him, nose wrinkling.

“Well, you know, he's just doing his job,” Cinderella says diplomatically. She lowers her voice, feeling like a conspirator, and whispers, “He  _ was  _ rather awful, though. To you.”

A snort follows. “And to you,” Aqua says shortly.

“And to me.”

To Cinderella's surprise, Aqua nods to herself. She almost looks pacified. Tea arrives soon after—chamomile, Cinderella deduces—and she fixes them both a cup. Aqua takes her without any sugar or milk, and Cinderella only puts in a little cream herself. They sip in silence. Despite how viciously she reacts to certain things, Aqua handles her teacup with grace, cupping it in her hands and savoring each of her sips. They sit in comfortable silence until a second maid brings a platter of food; servings of vegetables and lamb and thick brown bread on the side. She notes that, on Aqua's plate at least, the lamb has already been cut into proper portions. A kindness that neither of them had to ask for, and one that doesn't seem to dig any barbs into Aqua's sense of pride, either.

The silence remains as they tuck in. Aqua doesn't finish most of her plate, no doubt because of the amount and richness of her meal. They do polish off the bread, using the slices to mop up the sauce of the lamb. Cinderella pours them another cup of tea, but Aqua's head suddenly snaps up. She sniffs at the air, her mouth curling into a familiar frown. She turns down her hood and an arm sweeps out, catching over Cinderella's chest just as Charming storms in through the doors. 

He looks so polished and bright in his white regalia. He wears his crimson sash, decorated with medals and ribbons and gold fiber trimmings with such pride. His boots are polished, the heels clicking on the marble floor.

In an instant, in her peasant gown and hair askew from her day out, Cinderella feels like she does not belong. Not at all.

“Where,” he begins, almost a reprimand, “in the world  _ were  _ you? I needed you at my side. I had to lie to the ambassadors that—”

And he notices Aqua at last. Aqua, who looks like she's about to spring at him. Cinderella clamps her hands around the arm cast before her, holding tight.

“Who is this?” Charming asks Gregory.

“Her Highness's guest,” Gregory replies calmly.

“A mutual friend, darling,” Cinderella says. “Aqua. Do you remember her?”

“Aqua, Aq—the woman who saved you.” Charming's annoyance melts away completely, his eyes growing wide and soft and dark, the same that Cinderella had cleaved to long ago. “My  _ Lord _ . It's been thirteen years.”

Aqua trembles beneath her hands. She says nothing, but there's a hitch to her breath and she draws her arm away from Cinderella, putting both hands in her lap and clutching at her badly made clothing. The news has upset her tremendously, and though she fears being shrugged aside, Cinderella leans against Aqua to offer what comfort that she can. To her relief, and perhaps sorrow, Aqua leans back with another shaking inhale.

Cinderella takes her hand again, wrapping one arm around her back. Aqua grips back like a drowning sailor takes to driftwood. Cinderella turns her head to Charming, and his face is that of humbled realization and not pity, but deep compassion. This, she thinks again, is the man she loves. This gentle prince beneath the armor of a kingdom. Charming slowly approaches them both and kneels before Aqua, staying a measurable distance as she tenses at his footsteps.

“I will not ask you what has happened,” he begins, and Aqua nods in satisfaction. “But you saved my love's life, once. That's a debt I will never be able to properly repay. I assume Cinderella has already invited you to stay?”

Another nod.

“Then please. Stay as long as you'd like. We would be honored to have you here, my friend.”

“Thank you,” Aqua breathes. “You're both so...very kind. Bright.”

And that is that. Charming stands at once, and gives Cinderella a look that tells her that her absence at dinner and politics has been utterly and totally forgiven. He has never and will never stop her from following her heart.

“Well! Dearest.” Charming clears his throat. “Why don't we escort Aqua upstairs and get her settled in? What do you think, my friend? A warm bath and a clean gown go a long way.”

“Mm.” Aqua might manage a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. Cinderella pats her arm encouragingly anyway, her heart swelling with warmth.

They take Aqua up into the bedchambers with orders tossed for a bath. Cinderella throws open the doors of the room adjacent to hers and Charming's, where all her old effects from the house have remained clean, and dusted, and unused for years. She hears Aqua shuffling in behind her and then practically leaping back with a hiss as strong-armed men enter and lay out a deep, finely polished wooden tub. Steaming buckets of water, scented sweetly, are carried in next and poured. Cinderella busies herself opening the old drawers, peering in and humming thoughtfully, making use of what candlelight she has.

She only half pays attention to the sound of the door closing and Aqua's cautious sniffing as she inspects the tub, the soap brought in, her surroundings in general. However it is she finds her way around relies mostly on scent and sound, Cinderella has figured out, so she's careful to make the appropriate amount of noise as she moves through the room. Aqua deserves nothing but comfort, after all, and she should still have some—ah! Her favorite nightgown remains in its place. She stopped wearing them as Charming provided her with newer, more expensive replacements, but this robin egg blue number with the billowing sleeves and its unobtrusive collar will be perfect.

She brings it to her chest and takes her own private sniff, hearing the soft rustle of cloth and jingling buckles, but not paying much attention to them. Cinderella can feel nothing but relief when she smells nothing on the gown, except an innate cleanliness. Well, perhaps some old remains of washing powder she used long ago. Maybe the slightest hint of an old perfume. Nothing offensive or overpowering, however, which is the ideal.

Cinderella turns to tell Aqua of her find, and finds her breath seizing tight in her chest. Her brain and heart stutter to a near stop and her mouth drops, silently forming the words,  _ Oh, my.  _ Aqua has very little in the sense of modesty. The patchwork dress and cloak already lay on the bed, and what remains of Aqua's top is not, well, on her top. Which would be fine, if her arms weren't stretched behind her head to fiddle with the knot of her blindfold.

She's...gorgeous. It’s the only word that Cinderella's oxygen starved brain can dredge up as she sucks in a quiet, stunned breath. As a kind of warrior, Cinderella expects scars and marks of battles, but Aqua's skin remains whole and untouched, beautiful, candlelight and moonlight working in concert to paint her in dueling colors of heat and cold. She's far more toned than what Cinderella recalls of the woman long ago, but she still seems svelte, lean, graceful. A dancer. With incredible shoulders. How striking a figure she is, Cinderella thinks faintly, with her sleek power and her winter-kissed hair.

The knot fails. Just before Aqua draws off the blindfold she goes very still, jaw flexing.

“Cinderella?” she calls, her voice cracking just a bit.

“Oh, I—I'm sorry,” Cinderella says in an embarrassed rush, “I'm so terribly sorry, I wouldn't have—well, I had no idea you were, ah, unclothed, I'll just—”

“It's fine. I didn't know you were still here is all. I don't really care.” Aqua takes off the blindfold and lays it out with her dress and cloak, eyes closed as she turns her head to look about three feet from Cinderella's shoulder. She slowly cracks open one eye, then another; grimaces slightly, and can't do more than squint, but her eyes are opened. “I mean, I...care,” she continues, falteringly, “but not about my body. It...I don't care if you see.”

“Oh,” Cinderella squeaks. “Well! Okay! Well, I am sorry, besides, it was rude of me not to, ah, say anything.” Then, she asks quietly, to keep her mind and eyes from traveling, “Why can't you look at me?”

“You're too bright,” Aqua answers. “There's no darkness to dampen you. It's like...looking at the sun. I'm not used to the Realm of Light yet. Maybe I'll be able to...later.”

And then she turns around, giving Cinderella her back. They are separated by the bed, and it reaches just below Aqua's hips; so when she leans down and slides down the remains of her shorts, tending to her stockings, all Cinderella can really see is how the muscles in her back shift beneath her skin, the knobs of her spine, the shadowed dip to hint at what lies beyond Cinderella's view. She manages to get herself back together to gasp, “I'm leaving your nightgown on the bed,” just as Aqua swings one leg into the tub.

“Oh—thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Yes,” Cinderella rasps, “Well. Good night, Aqua.”

“You'll be close?” Aqua doesn't turn her head to face her yet, one leg in the tub.

“Y-yes. Ah, this room is connected to the master chambers—there's a little sitting room in between, so, well, you can't just walk right in, and—”

“But if anything were to happen to you, I could get there?” Aqua demands quietly.

“If anything were to...? Oh.” Cinderella blinks. “Well, yes. Just two sets of doors. And, even if they were to be locked—well, you have a way around that, don't you?”

That earns her an almost-chuckle rattling from Aqua's chest, and Cinderella drapes the nightgown on the bed and hurries to the double doors.

“Good night, Cinderella,” Aqua says from behind her. The sound of disturbed water accompanies her. She's settling into the tub, Cinderella figures. She thinks about saying goodnight back again, decides against it out of fear of making a fool of herself. Yet despite her better judgement, Cinderella lingers by the door of the sitting room and turns her head to view Aqua one last time. Purely to check on her health, of course. Cinderella can only see Aqua’s head and shoulders, which makes it a little better, but her traitor’s mouth opens before she can think better of it.

“Sleep well, dearest.” 

And the sincerity of her own voice chases Cinderella into the adjacent room. She shuts the doors behind her, leaning against them with a deep exhale, one hand clasping over her racing heart. Her cheeks feel hot and her head dizzy from the rush of blood.

It's hard to get the image of Aqua out of her head. She closes her eyes and sees golden eyes, warm and cold light entwining across broad shoulders. The sculpt of abdominal muscles. It's only because Aqua was ever so vulnerable, she rationalizes, and trusted Cinderella enough to see that kind of thing. And, perhaps, where Aqua is from such behavior is normal. Friendly, perhaps. Not that Cinderella could begin to understand what that kind of ritual would entail, and—

Well, no, she is not thinking about this anymore. She will wash herself with the cold water provided in the bowl by her vanity, she will dress in her own silks and lay beside her husband. Perhaps they will talk of their days. Cinderella will apologize for forgetting about the dinner with the neighboring royalty's ambassadors, and perhaps they can plan how best to deal with Aqua's return.

Charming is already halfway asleep by the time she makes herself clean and decent, exhaustion lining his handsome face. Cinderella snuggles up to his back, an arm draped around his waist—a bit more to it, now that he's left his days of athletic princely passions aside, not that she will love the softness he carries any less—and she sleeps as soon as her head hits the pillow.

(The dream is dark, and humid. Crimson lightning and hellfire broil ahead in those familiar,  _ too-familiar _ clouds. World-end.

Her heart aches from being surrounded by the tide of purple and black, writhing tendrils caging her in. It only races harder when Aqua peels out from that viscous curtain, sauntering with gold eyes hooded, haunted, hungry. Cinderella’s chin is taken between two fingers, tilted to bare her throat—

“Like looking into the sun. How deeply you burn me,” Aqua whispers. Then, softer still, menacing and seductively horrid, blending with the roar of her shattering world; “ _ How I long to burn in you.” _

When Cinderella awakes in the morning, sweat-soaked and crying into her pillow, back pressed against Charming's, she trembles.)


	4. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I'll try and find the image of God / In mountains made of ash and clouds of smoke / It's fight or flight / Buried in my mind / It's fight or flight / It keeps my mind cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Ramifications of past child abuse, depictions of disassociation.

Breakfast is held in a parlor, instead of the dining hall. Neither Cinderella or Charming can find it in themselves to hold a banquet or court; yesterday was taxing for the both of them, after all. King Richard's pair of ambassadors had already left early morning for the next kingdom, the next peace talk—not that Charming calls them that, of course, but Cinderella knows that's what they are. They're allying themselves together for the threat rumbling to the southeast.

Again, he does not phrase this as such. Her husband is ever so careful to keep her from knowing anything so dark. Regardless. A united front would have been an excellent start to their allyship, Charming tells her—with plenty of humor to lessen any sting—but he's sure that King Richard won’t think of their kingdom or their power any less for her absence.

Cinderella tells Charming of her adventures in kind. Of her walks down the street, mingling with her people, mourning at the subtle and quiet surges of change and how some things had remained the same precisely; of going back to Tremaine's manor.

“Darling,” he says, chiding lightly, “you know I hate it when you think of that place. Why did you go there?”

“Something...” Cinderella covers her heart, staring at her bowl of porridge dusted with cinnamon. “Something was calling me there.”

“Aqua,” Charming guesses.

Not at all, in truth. Aqua being there at the same time Cinderella had gone to the house had been a very lucky shred of fate. She loathes lying in any form, hates the thought of deception so deeply her skin crawls. But Charming will only worry and make fuss if she says otherwise, and she's already caused him enough trouble with this, so she simply nods in response. She doesn't trust the words lingering on her tongue to follow through; if she opens her mouth, she might say that she couldn't stand being a princess or a queen or feeling like she's in a pretty gilded cage. Better to say nothing at all, really.

“Your powers are incredible,” Charming says warmly, which makes her quietly miserable.

“Mm.” She finishes her porridge and the bowl is taken away by a serving maid. Cinderella rises to her feet; “I'm going to go check up on her.”

“Please, do,” Charming says with an adoring smile.

She leaves quickly, and a young boy—can't be more than fifteen, Cinderella thinks—from the laundry is charging down the hall, carrying a basket with clean white clothing folded neatly inside. The palace seems like a place of magic, with conveniences like this.

“Here, Highness,” he says, voice cracking in the middle and causing him to flush to the roots of his red hair with shyness. “Erm, new clothes for your guest, ma'am.”

“Oh, thank you...?”

“H-Herman, Your Highness!”

“Thank you, Herman,” Cinderella says, taking the basket from him. “Will these fit her, do you think?”

“It's, uh...Well, none of the dresses Mum's got on hand could fit her proper,” Herman confesses, his flush deepening as he stares down at his neat and polished shoes. “So we, uh...hope she won't be mad. S'all we think can fit her comfortably before her measurements are taken.”

Cinderella lifts the top of the sheet and peeks in the basket. A man's tunic, white, and worn dark trousers with a belt besides. Perfect.

“It's alright. Our guest is visiting from a different...part of the world,” Cinderella tells him. “She's used to wearing trousers.”

“Well, thank goodness for that! I'll be off then, Your Highness!” And the boy's off down the hall after a hurried bow. Most queens would be aghast at the informal talk and attitude between Cinderella and 'the help', but how could she ever think of herself as above someone else? Especially those that handle the cooking and the cleaning—

She shakes her head. No use going down that road again. She scolds herself, and knocks gently on the door.

“Aqua? Are you awake?”

Her heart begins to pump faster when there's no response. And, irrationally, a thought rises. A theory. Aqua isn’t in her room, isn’t in the castle. She’s skulking through the grounds and looking for weaknesses, escape routes, sticking to shadows and planning to—what?  _ What could she even be planning? _

Cinderella forces herself to calm down and it works enough for her to knock, with a bit more force. “Aqua?” And when silence responds to her again, she tries the handle and finds it unlocked.

“I'm coming in, please excuse me.”

Cinderella slips into the room and closes the door behind her quick as you please. The grip on her basket of clothes tightens as her heart goes racing in full. The tub is still there, the water long since cold and grey from Aqua's bath; the towel lies carefully draped over the edge. The bed, however, is utterly untouched, as is the nightgown. The scraps of Aqua's old clothing remains, the sight of which fails to settle Cinderella's nerves at all. She sets the basket on the mattress and walks carefully around the frame of the bed.

“Aqua?” she calls softly, fear a lump in her throat. 

Aqua was in barely any condition to walk on her own, blinded by sunlight and half starved. Really, to be so instantly suspicious of the woman who helped give her everything—such  _ gall _ . Such  _ nerve _ . What does it speak of Cinderella’s own character to leap to conclusions like this? 

The slightest whimper of noise draws Cinderella’s attention to a corner, and just like that, her chest feels cold and twisted.

Aqua huddles in a corner, naked and clean but terrified. She's curled up in a tight ball, knees drawn so close to her chest that they must be digging into her throat, feet tucked one over the other. Her arms encircle her drawn legs, nails digging into pale skin hard enough to leave welts. From the window, the curtains drawn to the side, an ocean of sunlight spills into the room, and Aqua has pressed herself into the darkest space available.

Did she even sleep?

“Aqua,” Cinderella croaks.

A flinch, but it's followed by another whimper instead of a hiss. Aqua's eyes are slammed shut and her entire body convulses and shakes. It's a pitiful sight, but Cinderella can only see a reflection of her own self as a child, hiding from Tremaine and the cane, and compassion wells before any pity.

“May I approach you? Just to draw the curtains.”

Aqua sniffs the air subtly, and gives a weak nod in return. Cinderella remains true to her word and moves only close enough to draw the curtains closed. The room is not plunged into deep darkness, but softened dawn, sunlight filtering to a coral pink as it creeps through the fabric. Aqua doesn't stop trembling, but uncurls just a bit, relaxes her fingers from digging nails into her arms. She sighs through her nose and then her head drops onto her knees, her breathing continuing with slight hitches.

Cinderella does not point it out. Cinderella does not draw attention to the vulnerability. She gathers up her courage and returns to the basket of clothing, pulling out the tunic, and the trousers, the belt, and, to her shock, a thick, long piece of cloth. No doubt it's to serve as a suitable ribbon to tie in Aqua's hair, but with how much more surface area it can cover, Cinderella thinks it would make a good blindfold. It's even a light blue, much like how Aqua's eyes used to be.

“I couldn't sleep,” Aqua says, breaking the silence with her rough voice. “I was...afraid that if I did...”

“That the dream would end,” Cinderella says back. “I'm familiar with the sensation. It still haunts me. Sometimes—” she laughs beneath her breath, bitter for a moment, “—sometimes I go to bed and wonder if Step—...if Lady Tremaine will be the one calling my name and waking me up.”

Aqua inhales, like she's about to say something, but bites it back. Quite literally; Cinderella hears the subtle click of teeth.

“Thank you,” she says in response, knowing that Aqua had a barb or two ready for Tremaine's memory. “Now, I've got some clothing here—I can leave if—”

“Don't leave me. Pl-please.”

Cinderella whirls around. Aqua hasn't moved from her spot on the ground, but her face is turned up toward Cinderella, eyes closed. Her lashes are wet. There's tracks down her cheeks. Aqua, Cinderella realizes, is crying.

“Of course—of course I won't,” she breathes. “Oh, no, I won't be leaving you alone at all, if you give me permission to. May I come closer? With a shirt for you?”

“Yes.”

Cinderella gathers the tunic and blindfold and brings both items over, kneeling in front of Aqua. Aqua, for her part, slowly uncurls herself. Her nudity is made all the more apparent, of course, but unlike last night Cinderella finds herself utterly unaffected. She untucks a handkerchief from the bodice of her dress and gently dabs at Aqua's cheeks. The heat still burns, the darkness riled and churning just beneath the skin, so she's quick with the blindfold, careful not to catch any of that silver hair in the knot.

She helps Aqua into the tunic. Then, on the count of three, helps Aqua to stand. The tunic fits her very well; though the sleeves swallow her hands from the length, Aqua's shoulders and arms fill it out fair enough. The hem ends at the middle of Aqua's thighs.

“Now the trousers?”

“Please.”

Cinderella leads Aqua to the trousers this time, lets her handle that on her own. She keeps her back to Aqua while she dresses the rest of the way, gathering up the towel. She spies a pair of flats at the bottom of the basket, reminiscent of her own old pair, and smiles.

“I think I need help with the belt,” Aqua draws her attention away again. Cinderella turns and swallows down her giggle.

It's an odd sight, certainly; women tend to wear gowns, even the peasantry. On a different body type, perhaps it would be an embarrassing, scandalous sight, but Aqua looks rather charming. The legs of the trousers are an inch too long, but they fit over Aqua's more defined muscles well. The slope of her jaw softens most of the natural masculinity of the outfit; with the tunic tucked in, sleeves draping lightly, she looks rather handsome, almost in an androgynous sort of way. Cinderella tucks the flats beneath her arm and seizes the belt, helping to thread and buckle it properly, having to secure the metal tongue in the second to last notch.

“Too tight?” she asks, fingers lingering by Aqua's hips.

“No. Perfect.”

“Good. You know, the staff were in a bit of a fright to figure out something you could wear. There were no dresses fit for you yet,” Cinderella adds.

“I don't like dresses much anyway,” Aqua says quietly. “Harder to fight in.”

“Mm, you'd know best...” Cinderella clears her throat. “Sit on the bed, Aqua?”

“Why?”

“I have shoes for you,” Cinderella says brightly.

Aqua's lips purse as she gently lowers herself to the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the sheets. Cinderella settles herself onto her knees and cups one slender ankle, humming faintly as she rolls up the hem of Aqua's trousers.

“Wait,” Aqua says, suddenly, “are they glass?”

And she sounds so  _ serious _ , so carefully hopeful for just a moment, that Cinderella lets herself burst into giggles. The tension in her chest unwinds as the corners of Aqua's mouth twitch as well, something that's not quite a smile creeping on her face.

“Not glass at all, unfortunately. But, if you'd  _ like t _ o try some on, I'm sure I have a very particular shoe...”

Aqua snorts. Cinderella giggles again and slides on the first shoe, and marvels at the perfect fit. She does the same to the other leg—trouser hem flipped first, of course—and then stands up herself, brushing off her skirt. She gathers up the dress she'd made for Aqua first, stuffs it into the basket with the towel, and then picks up Aqua's old top with gentle consideration.

“I think we could repair them,” Cinderella says, and Aqua's shoulders stiffen as any good humor is wiped off of her face. “If you'd like?”

“No,” Aqua says, voice hoarse. “No, no. That's...that's not mine. Not anymore. Burn them.”

“Alright,” Cinderella agrees. She picks up the ruined scraps of fabric; that burnt sugar scent still lingers on them. Lingers on Aqua herself, despite the bath. It's not really comparable to the charred swamp stench of darkness that had coated every stone and metal and glass of Hollow Bastion, not at all the same as the singed camphor that trailed in Maleficent's wake, but similar enough to make her heart bleed.

Wherever Aqua has been—whatever has been done to her heart—is nothing short of tragedy.

“Cinderella?”

She blinks from her musings and looks over. She bites her lip on an endeared smile as Aqua haltingly throws on the cloak and hood from yesterday, arming herself with protection from the light. It had been just past noon when they'd met again, so Cinderella figures quickly that Aqua's sensitive body can't handle such direct sunlight.

“I'll send someone in to pick up the tub and water soon,” Cinderella says, opening the door of the room. “Maybe we'll head down to the castle's laundry. They'd love to take your measurements and we can pick you up a proper cloak.”

Aqua nods in silent agreement to that.

“Alright! It’s still early, so let’s go get you some breakfast.”

Cinderella sets the basket by the door and takes Aqua's hand in her own to lead. She can already hear the staff trotting in behind them, ready to tend to the room in Aqua's absence. A few serving girls do a double take at the silver-haired stranger holding their queen's hand—some in appreciation, others in confusion—and Cinderella can't help another laugh bubbling in her throat.

“They're staring at me,” Aqua mutters between her teeth.

“It's not often they see a woman in trousers. And, well, you are rather striking, Aqua.”

“Striking,” Aqua repeats, her tone unreadable. “Hm.”

“I mean that in a good way,” Cinderella hurries to add, in case she's offended, but Aqua just shakes her head with another quirking of her lips. Cinderella squeezes her hand and laughs again, out of relief, and takes Aqua into the parlor.

 

*

 

Though she must be ravenous from her journeys and plights, Aqua eats her meal with considerable grace and delicate manners. Which makes up for the sheer amount that she's able to pack away; two bowls of porridge have already come and gone, Aqua beginning on her third, and a platter of honey glazed rolls and two apples have gone the same way. Each time, before she takes even a bite, she sniffs over her food to her own satisfaction.

“Checking for poison,” Aqua says blandly when Charming asks her why. “This food wasn't made for you. Can't be too careful.”

“And you can detect if poison is in food?” Charming prods, leaning forward in genuine interest. “Just by scent?”

She nods, taking another spoonful of porridge.

“That's quite the nose on you, then,” he jokes, hands linked below his chin. “However did you manage to train like that?”

Aqua freezes. Her throat works hard as she swallows first her bite, then again, and a third time before she lets out a deep sigh through her nose.

“Where I...escaped from,” Aqua begins, putting down her spoon, “It's not a place where humans should go. It's a dark...and twisted place. It ch-changes you. You're forced to adapt. So I did. And my senses adapted too. I think it's even worse now, because my eyes are so sensitive that I can't...”

“That makes sense,” Charming says quietly, his face drawn in thought. “Yes...hm. Aqua, may I ask you something?”

“Darling,” Cinderella starts, laying a note of careful warning in her voice.

Charming does not answer her, but he does quietly take a roll from the middle of the table.

“You're a warrior, are you not?”

“I...was. Am. Maybe,” Aqua says, frowning again. She sniffs and her mouth twists in confusion; whatever she's scented out must not make much sense to her. Cinderella can relate. She's not at all sure where this discussion is heading either.

“When my father passed away,” Charming continues, “he told me all he knew about the Keyblade. About other worlds. It's a burden the first born of my family must bear, when it comes time to reign.”

Aqua's lip curls over her teeth, briefly. “And?”

He throws the bread roll without any warning. Aqua's hand snaps out, like lightning, to catch it.

“Cinderella,” Charming says after a moment of heavy silence, as Aqua sets the roll on the table, “would you excuse Aqua and I? I need to have a word with her.”

“No,” Aqua snaps, just before Cinderella can. Tension crackles in the room, a noose of it slipped around Charming's throat that he either can't or refuses to identify. “No. She goes, I go.”

He inhales. Looks decades older in an instant, his face crumpling only slightly. “I could order it, you know.”

“I'm not one of your people,” Aqua says in a low, dark voice. Cinderella remembers her dream so suddenly— _ How I long to burn in you, Aqua had purred, fingers stroking her skin— _ that she can't help but gasp, flustered for a bit. It draws both of their attention, though, and Charming gently touches her elbow.

“She'll listen to  _ you,” _ he says quietly.

“But, I...” Cinderella inhales deeply, then says, “Whatever you can say to her, my love, you can say in front of me. I won't...I won't leave her.”

Charming shakes his head, clearly pained, and relents with another sigh. His hand does not leave her elbow, and he merely says, “There is a war. Armies are gathering in the southeast, and I fear they will march any day now. My allies are gathering and we'll meet them blow for blow, God willing, but I will have to leave soon.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Cinderella wrenches her arm out of his grasp, hand to her chest. “And when  _ exactly _ were you going to tell me about this? When you were already on the frontlines?”

“Darling,” Charming says, warning, “not  _ now _ .”

His words resonate with her freshly upheaved memories. In the grim set of his face she sees her father on his deathbed, his hair falling out in clumps and his hands weathered and gnarled as he told her to listen to Tremaine, ignored her sobs for him to stay because she was scared and he was certain— _ Not now, Ella, not  _ now,—and oh so quickly the panic is upon her. Because it's so easy for her mind to latch onto the perceived—real? No, it must be perceived, she's only imagining it, surely—note of disappointment in Charming's voice, so easy to see Tremaine's flashing eyes and her ill-concealed sneer in the shadows he casts.

Her breath seizes tight in her chest like he's rammed a fist next to her heart. She stumbles out of the chair, gasping as she braces her hand on the table. The world grows indistinct and fuzzy around the edges even as she tries to blink the haze clear. Charming stands up with her, reaching out for her, but she twists away from his hand and nearly stumbles.

It shouldn't surprise her that Aqua is there to catch her shoulder, or that she's quickly pulled to her side with a sweep of an arm. She leans against Aqua's back and clutches at the fabric of her ill-sewn cloak. When Charming takes a step towards them Aqua bares her teeth with a low hiss, shoulders drawn.

“You're protective of her,” Charming says out loud, hands open and up in surrender. He does not make another move toward them. “That's good.”

“You upset your wife and you're worried about how  _ I _ feel about her?” Aqua sneers. “Priorities.”

“Her safety is all that matters to me,” Charming argues, his cheeks flushing hot. “Listen to me.  _ Listen _ , Keybearer, to what I would ask. I would hire you as her personal guard while I am away; you would live here, of course, but you would be compensated with coin for your time. I know warriors have their pride and they would never accept charity, so you'd be earning your keep and—”

Cinderella's head spins. He's bartering her. Acting like she doesn't have a choice, shouldn't have a choice—that’s wrong, not what he’s doing—her rational mind argues,  _ but isn’t it, in the end? _ She can't think, can't breathe, can't focus, and she gasps out, “I want to leave,” against Aqua's shoulder and feels her turn. A strong arm cuts against her waist.

“Where?” A single word, roughly spoken against her cheek. She shivers.

“Gardens—exit through the kitchens, cut through the laundry, I can lead—”

“I can get us there,” Aqua says, and then they're running—or more like stumbling their way out of the parlor, heedless of how Charming raises his voice sharply, calling after her in particular. The toe of her fine slipper catches against an uncharacteristic roll in the rug and Cinderella feels a gust of cool air against her bared foot; once again she flees the prince and leaves behind only a shoe. Cinderella would laugh, if she didn't feel so utterly nauseated.

She doesn't even get the chance to fall; Aqua's strength keeps her hauled up steadily. She thinks she might mumble the directions before the haze comes back, filling her ears with cotton as the world goes soft and distorted, a rush of color.

Oh, she hates this. She really does.

The colors whirl and dance in front of her eyes like smudged paintings as they tear through the castle; the smell of hot linens and lye hit her nose first, and a wave of humid air washes against her skin.  _ Laundry _ . They've made it. The corset and bodice of her “casual” gown seems to only constrict tighter. She tries to drag in breath, fails, and ends up sagging against Aqua's arm. She hears noise—Aqua's voice, rough around the edges and nearly frantic, violent all the more for it.

Servants drop their washing and rush forward, old maids frantically wiping their sudsy, rough hands against their aprons. Aqua snarls at anyone who tries to take Cinderella away from the steady crutch of her arm and shoulder, so someone upturns an empty bucket and Cinderella finds herself seated. More indistinct murmuring—someone hands Aqua a bucket of water and she plods it to the ground, summons her Keyblade, and points the tip to the water. People dart back in shock from the display. Without any form of incantation from Aqua, no 'boo's or 'bibbity's to be found, the top layer of the water is frozen solid; a few well aimed jabs turns it into floating chunks of ice and Aqua dismisses her weapon, kneels, rolls up her sleeves and whips off the white cloak from her shoulders.

“Don't,” Cinderella moans quietly, hearing her own voice as if from a very great distance. The windows are larger in the laundry rooms, spilling great swathes of light all around in golden hues. Surely she'll hurt—but Aqua says nothing, a grimace the only sign of her discomfort. She fists the cloak in two delicate hands and, with a soft grunt, rends the fabric in two.

It wasn't a very sturdy sheet to begin with, Cinderella knows, but the display of strength still makes something in her stomach curl.

Aqua tosses aside one half, rips the other half into smaller pieces, then dunks one of them in the ice water until her skin reddens from the cold. She pulls it out, wrings the cloth, and then she's captured Cinderella's chin in one frigid hand with careful tenderness.

A gasp still escapes—“ _ How I long to burn…”— _ and then the cold cloth follows, sweeping against the side of her neck and brushing up. The chill reminds her brain that it has a body and reels her back inside of her skin with each careful pass, wiping away sweat and making her shiver. Aqua dunks the cloth again, and now Cinderella can understand her words as she says, “Undo the laces of corset. Get her in something loose.”

“That's not very proper,” someone cracks from the back.

“Not about being proper. It's affecting her breathing. I'll do it myself if I have to—”

There's mutterings and a rush of bodies. A teenage girl in a hand-me-down dress bustles behind Cinderella and starts on the buttons, her mother bustling to find something to replace the silk. Aqua wrings out the cloth again and this time wraps it around Cinderella's neck, two fingers pressing against her pulse. In the minute Aqua spends taking her pulse, the room has been cleared of serving boys and old weaving men, a privacy screen dug out from some dusty corner.

“Get,” Cinderella croaks weakly, “get her a cloak. Something suitable for daily wear, please...”

Aqua jerks her head up, startled. Her lips purse and she mutters, “Priorities, Cinderella.”

“I'm not an invalid,” she returns quietly, “you helped me, so I'll help you in return. A cloak?”

“Right away, Highness,” says a woman old enough to be everyone else's grandmother, and she lays a crook-fingered hand on Aqua's shoulder. “Come along, now...let's take your measurements while we've got you here.”

“But I need to be—”

“I'm safe here,” Cinderella says, wiggling her toes. They're no longer numb and she can feel how solid the stone is beneath them. “Go, Aqua.”

“Aqua!” The old woman's voice creaks like ancient wood, pulling on Aqua again, “Such a lovely name. Don't make me collect you from down there, girl, my back isn't what it used to be...”

Cinderella hears Aqua mutter,  _ sorry, ma'am _ , and watches her stand. She isn't surprised to see Aqua taking the old woman's arm and leading the hunched, hobbling woman as much as she herself is lead. The privacy screen cuts off Cinderella’s vision, and she allows herself to be pulled up from the bucket. She tunes out the fussing, feeling heat creep up her neck, even past the cold cloth.

How humiliating; to be brought back into that kind of state over something she's always known. She hasn't been like that since she was fifteen, or at the very least, not that helpless while she's there. Cinderella had her imagination and her corners and her dreams, oh yes, but some days that wasn't enough and the separation had been a necessary tool for survival. Disconnect her frantic mind, put distance between herself as a person—a step-daughter, a step-sister—and the servant they'd carved her into. Tremaine had always been able to tell, but had never corrected her once she'd gotten her body to go through the motions, preferring a glassy-eyed scullery maid with no bite or deigns to rebel. Anastasia and Drizella had never cared in the first place, so long as they got their tea and biscuits.

“Highness,” one of her newfound dressers whispers tenderly, dragging her out of her mind. “Why the tears?”

“What?” Cinderella blinks, realizes she's started a silent cry. Drifted again—an aftershock, really. She was out of it long enough for the gowns to be switched, and the corset tossed aside—not a short time at all, really. She can breathe properly now. Cinderella clears her throat and a handkerchief is tucked in her palm; she swipes the tears away with a flick of the wrist. “It's nothing. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

“Maisie, your Highness.”

“I'm terribly sorry. I must be disrupting your day.”

“It's alright, dearie. I've two growin' boys running amok at all hours,” Maisie chuckles, finishing a last lace on the relaxed peasant garments. “It's a pleasure, really.”

There's a ruckus from beyond the screen, and once Cinderella has wiped her face clean with the damp cloth around her neck and nodded, it's pulled away. Aqua is trying, in vain, to escape the old woman who'd dragged her away; her expression is panicked and she's trying to tuck her tunic back into the waist of her trousers. A deep green cloak is tied around her shoulders—the end of it is fisted in the old woman's grasp.

“Just one dress, dearie!” she crows.

“No thank you,” Aqua says quickly, flustered. “Don't like them.”

“Hips like yours deserve to be accentuated!”

Aqua makes a face like she's eaten something particularly foul, and it's so...it's so human and bright so suddenly from her sullen expressions that Cinderella feels herself laugh softly, then high and loud, doubling over at the waist. It inspires more laughter, kind and relaxed and something of a relief after the tension that had followed their flight to the laundry. Aqua stops in place, only briefly, before briskly plucking the hem of the cloak out of the elderly seamstress's hands with a firm, “ _ No dresses.” _ And she's moving for Cinderella, weaving around tubs of soapy water and discarded washboards.

“Such a shame!” calls the old lady. “You've got the shoulders of an angel and legs that would make Her Highness herself weep! If you won't let me make you silk, then prepare yourself for the tightest leathers I can get my hands on! I  _ will _ polish you up, you diamond in the rough!”

Aqua's face is quite red when she finally storms up to Cinderella's wheezing form. She's almost  _ pouting _ .

“I think,” Cinderella sucks in air and stifles more laughter, “I really needed that laugh.”

“...Then I suppose it's worth it,” Aqua mutters, definitely pouting now.

In the back, the old woman is gushing about the measurements she's taken. Cinderella can't hear the words being said, but the old woman makes a show of flexing one of her thin and sagging arms, and, miming the swell of a bicep, points at Aqua. Two young women, twins with bright red hair, titter and coo.

“Striking,” Cinderella repeats quietly. “As I told you.”

“Do you still want to leave?” Aqua asks, trying in vain to hide in the hood of her cloak. The menfolk are brought back in slowly, and as Cinderella and Aqua move for the adjoining door that leads to a private servant's corridor to the kitchens, the staff begin to shift back to their stations. It gives Cinderella time to consider what she wants, now that the situation has passed.

She won't drift again. She is fairly certain of that. But she still has no desire to see Charming right now, to deal with the fallout without some time to decompress. She passes her hands down the skirt of her dress, admiring the scratchy texture. Yesterday was supposed to be the last jaunt of the cinder-girl; she supposes an extended adventure can't hurt. At least she has a friend now.

“I do,” Cinderella says.

Aqua gives a nod and offers her arm. Cinderella takes it with a surprised giggle, and maybe it's her imagination, but Aqua seems to straighten up with a hint of pride. 

“The gardens, right?” Aqua sniffs the air. “Through the kitchens, that's what you said.”

“Yes.” And seeing Aqua's brow furrowing, she offers, “I'll lead this time.”

“Thanks.” Aqua huffs. “Everyone's so bright here—it's hard to navigate.”

“Tell me more about that,” Cinderella says, pulling them to the wooden door that opens into the semi-darkness of the servant's corridor. “You don't have your eyes, but you're able to move so efficiently. Just by smell?”

“Sound and a bit of magic plays a part too, but yes. Mostly scent,” Aqua answers. She doesn't seem too comfortable talking about it, but she's calm for the most part. “Darkness always carries a scent.”

“Is it...any darkness, or the darkness of the heart?”

“Bit of both. Like—this place, it's not a bad place, so it doesn't stink, but there's bits and pieces of resentment and frustration lingering in the wood.” At Cinderella's sharp inhale, Aqua continues, “But that's unavoidable, right? It's not overpowering, but darkness is clingy. It's old hurts from decades of bodies coming down this path.”

Aqua shudders then. Sniffs once, twice, and her brows lift in shock. Cinderella can feel the atmosphere lighten, even as the darkness Aqua herself possesses seems to stir very faintly.

“...They're gone,” Aqua mutters. “The bits and pieces...just gone, like that. Hm. Must have been the influence of your light.”

“You think it's so easy?” Cinderella looks around, now a touch nervous.

“Not at all, but like I said, they were small pieces to begin with. Even...even I could have dusted them away, I think.”

Cinderella hums in agreement, tightening her grip. She tugs a little to get them moving again. “So, you smell the darkness, and...?”

“It's hard to describe. It's like...it's less like sight, and more an impression. Negative space against positive. I'm not making any sense, I know,” Aqua chuckles softly, “but it's not really something even  _ I _ can explain properly. It just...is.”

“It's handy,” Cinderella says.

They come to the end of the corridor at last, and Cinderella pulls the door open. Lunch preparations are already underway, despite the hour, and Cinderella chooses a remotely clear path to lead Aqua through. Along the way a basket of sweet rolls, fresh beignets and wine and fresh fruit are given without question or even notice, and when Cinderella tries to hand it back the cook only gives her a wink and saunters off. Heading to the final door and pushing into the gardens, she spies Aqua sniffing curiously in the basket's direction.

“No poison,” she reports softly, but her head's still inclined a bit toward it. “Something...sweet?”

“Technically, it's all sweets. I'm still full from breakfast...” She catches the eager look on Aqua's face before it flickers away at her words, and Cinderella can't help a little giggle that escapes. “You're free to indulge, though.”

“...If you insist.”

“I do indeed.” Cinderella leads them to the fountain and smiles, perhaps a touch bitterly, at the nostalgia that chases her as she walks nearly the same path she remembers taking with Charming so long ago. They sit on one of the stone benches, the basket between them, and Cinderella helps Aqua to a beignet. The first bite leaves powdered sugar to the tip of her nose down to her chin, and Cinderella clasps a hand to her mouth to muffle her bark of laughter. She fishes out a napkin from the basket as Aqua awkwardly holds a hand beneath the treat, chewing quickly.

After cleaning her up and coaching her on how best to deal with the messy treat, Cinderella sits in silence and lets Aqua eat in peace. Another beignet and a sweet roll vanish before Aqua wipes her hands clean and closes the top of the basket. There's still a bit of powdered sugar on her fingertips and she rubs it between them, as if fascinated by the crumbling sugar.

Cinderella waits. Then asks, “How did you know what to do? When I was...”

Aqua's hands go still and she part her lips. Closes them. Parts them again. “Ven...Ven used to have episodes like that. The panic, the distance...”

“Ven did? Really?” Cinderella keeps her voice soft. “I never would have imagined that. He seemed so...so open and bright.”

“Some days were better than others,” Aqua says. “When we first met Ven, he was...well, now I know  _ why _ he was, but—he was hollow. And empty. He'd go back to that state every now and then. There was never a trigger, and Terra...Terra never knew what to do with him. Terra always tried to snap him out of it with physical contact, shaking him, yelling. It only ever drove him deeper inside of himself, so I told Terra to leave it to me.” She heaves a sigh and her hands twist against each other in her lap.

“How are they? Your boys? Do they—oh my goodness, Aqua, do they know you're  _ here _ , I—”

Aqua flinches like she's been struck, curling up into herself. Her hand covers her heart as if to hide a mortal wound, or to shield it from harm. 

“They're gone,” she rasps, voice gone terribly hoarse.

Cinderella can find nothing to say, at first. The grief is so palpable that it sits like a stone in Cinderella's chest, right beneath her heart, knocking itself around in her lungs with every painful pulse. She hates the idea of Ventus dead, of Terra dead—they'd helped her so much, in their own ways, all three of these brave heroes, who'd each put themselves on the line to help  _ her _ reach her dream. It seems selfish that she should enjoy her happily ever after where they cannot. But that way of thinking is disrespectful to everyone involved, so Cinderella swallows back the bile of her own faltering self-confidence and reaches out.

She touches Aqua’s shoulder. It trembles under her touch, but the hand that comes to cover her own is warm and still has some sticky residue from the sugar, and Aqua grips her tight.

“What do you mean, Aqua?” Cinderella pries after a moment.

“Terra's heart was...surely, by now it's...” She swallows hard. “The darkness took his heart. It shattered Ven's, too.”

Cinderella moves the basket to the ground, slides against the fountain, and wraps her arms around Aqua's shoulders without another word. She's never spoken of any other kind of family, and now she's lost the boys, too. And if she came to Cinderella's world, rather than her own...perhaps it's not a twist of luck. Perhaps it was done consciously. Perhaps, Cinderella thinks, Aqua might think of her as the only person left in her life that's still  _ around _ . And that's silly; with as kind and bold and selfless as Aqua is, surely she's made more than her fair share of friends...

But maybe they were taken by the darkness too. Maleficent and her mysterious puppeteer were very thorough in their plans.

Aqua does not cry, perhaps because she does not want to wet her blindfold, or because the outside is too open, too public, for that soft-spoken moment of vulnerability from the early morning to return, but Cinderella holds her, presses Aqua’s head to the crook of her neck, and passes a hand through her soft hair from beneath the hood. It's long enough to lay out over her broad shoulders, all that glittering silver with shining sapphire threads scattered throughout. A bit shaggy, jagged split ends and ragged from a lack of attention. But it's really quite lovely.

Aqua is really quite lovely.

“You'll stay with me,” Cinderella murmurs, “won't you? My husband...even if I begged him, tore out my own heart and offered it to him, wouldn't stay. The kingdom needs him. In his mind, I am part of that whole, therefore...” She inhales. “No one would force you to stay. And even if you did, no one would force you to guard me.”

“But I would,” resonates into her skin. “I'll stay. I'll protect you.”

“Will you at least let yourself be paid for it?”

“I'll manage to accept that,” Aqua mutters. Her breath tickles Cinderella's collarbones and she stifles a shudder.

“Good. We'll let him know when we're ready to go back in.”

Aqua nods slowly against her. Then she sniffs, bolts up to her feet and raises her nose in the air. Cinderella stands up soon after, feeling the moment of peace between them in the late morning shatter as Aqua's frown returns and deepens. Tension runs from her, head to toe, and her fists clench and unclench. Cinderella does not gather the basket from the ground as Aqua whips a hand out to her.

“Something's coming,” Aqua says quietly. “Something with a stench.”

“Heartless?” The word tears itself out of Cinderella's throat.

“No.” She sniffs again, and grits her teeth. “Not yet.” Her head's faced in the direction of the walkway to the right of the fountain. Cinderella can hear the clomp of boots—many,  _ many _ boots at that—and doesn't hesitate to move to Aqua's side. Together they back up into a cleared patch of packed earth and freshly cut grass, hedges framing each side.

Aqua makes them stop in the center of the clearing. It's not long before they see what's coming; the rotund guard from last night, the one rude to Aqua, followed by six other guards. Cinderella's stomach roils when she sees that three of them carry bayonet-tipped rifles, and the other three wear sabers at the hip. Only one of them looks a bit nervous, like something's spooking him; the others walk with purpose and their eyes are dark.

Too dark.

The hair on the back of Cinderella's neck rises as Aqua breathes in through her nose and lets out a low growl. “Get behind me,” she cautions beneath her breath, and Cinderella lets Aqua's arm hook around in front of her, pressing her backward just a bit. The guards silently form a semicircle at the front of the clearing. The nervous-looking one glances back and forth, brow furrowed.

“There you are, Your  _ Highness _ ,” the portly guard says softly. His words make her skin crawl and the look in his eye seems oh so familiar,  _ too _ familiar that she expects him to blink and his eyes will be jaundice yellow. “His Majesty asked us to...keep an eye out for you. So to speak. You and your stray, over there.”

Cinderella remains quiet, at first. The stirrings of violence crackles in the air, and it's making her break into a cold sweat; the young man at the center of the formation swallows hard and goes pale. There's something terrible at work here, but Cinderella can't figure it out just yet.

“Well,” she says after a moment, glad that her voice does not crack, “you've found us. If you're going to escort me back to my husband, then I'm sorry to say that you've wasted your time, gentlemen. I will return to him when I'm good and ready.”

“Ah, yes, thought you might...feel a certain way about that. We've our orders, Highness. You understand.”

“I really don't,” Cinderella says, and when four voices rise in frigid, mocking chuckles the chill rocks her to the marrow.

“S-Sir Barkley, sir,” the nervous guard begins, his hands shaking so hard it causes his saber to rattle in its sheath, “our orders were just to locate Her Highness, th-that's all—”

“Such a sorry state of the world,” Barkley, the clear leader here, says idly, “that a man can't even keep his bitch properly collared.”

The boy's jaw drops. The sound that rumbles out of Aqua is just shy of inhuman, furious and disgusted. Cinderella herself is more stunned than offended; she's been called worse by others who mattered to her far more, after all. And besides, she's not stupid. There are some men who will never respect her as a person should.

But to be so bold about it? Here, in front of her, in front of a clear supporter? There is something dangerous and foul, and Cinderella realizes it when she looks down at their feet. Barkley's shadow roils like a banner in the wind; four of his companions have the same sway to their shadows, but the young man who stammers helplessly casts a proper one, still and moving only when he does. Aqua's knees bend just a touch, sniffing as her head swings back and forth across the line of guardsmen.

“Y-you can't speak to Her Highness like that! That's—that's about as bad as treason!”

“Treason is letting some strange woman kidnap the queen,” Barkley says without any hint of righteous indignation. He almost sounds excited. “You know what we do to treasonous wenches? We haven't had a good hanging in years, have we, lads?”

_ “Kidnapping?” _ Cinderella leans over Aqua's arm just a bit, letting her disgust show. “Are you out of your mind?! Aqua isn't  _ kidnapping _ me!”

“S'your word against ours, you know. Womenfolk always get hysteric when they're ripe for it. His Majesty won't mind if we just take out the trash while we get you back up to him...”

“You're out of your minds,” Cinderella whispers. The nervous young man takes a step back as the others move to tighten the circle. Aqua does not move, save to angle her body to keep herself in between Cinderella and the three rifles being slung from decorated shoulders. Barkley and the man just next to him draw out their sabers with a horrifying hiss of sound, steel ringing as it scrapes out from the scabbard.

The blades are tellingly dull. Darkness never shines.

Aqua flicks her wrist and the Keyblade appears in a flash of light. She's breathing through her mouth, now, as if tasting the air. When Cinderella lays a hand over the center of her back she finds the darkness again, but muted, more natural; instead of spiked aggression and wild fury there's only a calm, grim determination. It flows beneath her touch like water, practically curling against her fingers in a steady, flowing stream.

“Don't kill them,” she whispers tightly. “They're not monsters, Aqua, not yet...”

“I know,” Aqua murmurs back, barely audible. Someone's waiting for the first strike. She raises her voice to the guards for the first time; “Fire at me, and regret it.”

“Is that a threat, pet?” Barkley asks.

“A warning,” Aqua replies.

“Sounds like a threat to me, lieutenant,” one of the riflemen says, taking aim. “Think we got good cause to call for self defense.”

“That we do, boys.  _ Fire _ .”

Before the trigger is pulled, Cinderella screams to the boy not involved: “ _ Run! Get Gregory! _ ”

He takes off, bolting without a word. Cinderella closes her eyes and presses herself against Aqua's back as she hears the click of metal, the barely-there hiss of spark to powder, and then the roar of the rifles. The sweet, resounding ring of magic prefacing two yowls of pain makes her look up, seeing the remains of a dome of light flickering into the air; a glance shows that two of the shooters have dropped their weapons to clutch at parts of themselves. One holds his arm, grinding his teeth in pain; the other, his leg just above the top of his boot.

A slurred cry as one of the guards lunges forward with a sloppy swing, his eyes fever-bright. Aqua parries it with an easy flick and sends the swordsman toppling tail over kettle. The unharmed rifleman takes the distraction to jab forward with a thrust; Aqua uses the long reach of her Keyblade to catch the trigger guard with the teeth of it, and with a grunt of effort, severs the gun in two. Sparks fly from the mutilated iron and wood chips go flashing; while his arms flail, Aqua dips into his space, butts him in the temple with the guard of her Keyblade and he goes down in an instant, unconscious but alive.

It proves to be a mistake.

Cinderella gasps as a thick, dark smoke rolls from the unconscious man's mouth, falls to the grass in liquid drops, then darts viper-quick into the shadow Aqua casts on the grass. Aqua goes rigid with a hiss, her body seized and teeth bared in an agonized grimace.

Barkley chooses to make his strike there, silent save for his footfalls as he goes to cut Aqua's head from her shoulders.

“Look out!” Cinderella calls out.

Aqua manages to get her body to move at that, overpowering whatever that sliver of darkness did, though not quite fast enough. She shoves Cinderella back with a palm against her shoulder, wrenching her own body back; Cinderella isn't hurt from her own landing, but she can  _ feel _ the grass stains on her dress as she skids a few feet away. Barkley two-steps back, his blade shining with crimson, having scored a hit on Aqua's left arm. The cut, from what Cinderella can see, isn't life-threatening. Just deep enough to bleed profusely, turning half of Aqua's white tunic sleeve carmine as it spills.

Aqua spits. Sniffs to make sure of Cinderella's own position, then  _ flies _ into action. Almost gliding across the grass, she launches a fireball from the tip of the Keyblade to knock one rifleman off his feet; an easy flick has a wave of ice washing over the legs of the other, freezing him in place. Aqua seems to skate across the chilled trail left behind to ram the bottom of the Keyblade's guard against his face and he slumps back as far as the solid ice lets him.

The smoke leaves his mouth, too. This time Aqua doesn't freeze up as it enters her shadow; she rolls her shoulders and breathes out, darkness fluttering from the corners of her lips. Cinderella manages to get up to her knees, feeling a certain kind of dread at the sight.

The final rifleman reclaims his gun, rocks to his feet, and hobbles to another charge. From Aqua's flank, the swordsman she first parried takes his chance as well. Trailing darkness, Aqua twists out of the way of the bayonet and clamps her hand on the barrel of the rifle; she holds the Keyblade to the side and slams it into the rifleman's stomach, turning the guard of her weapon into an improvised set of knuckles. As soon as the rifle is released from the winded man's slackened hands Aqua pivots on a heel to send the butt of it cracking across the swordsman's face.

The force is enough to crack the wood, and lift him off of his feet once more. As his smoke joins Aqua's shadow she flips the gun around to hold it by the stock and slams the iron barrel against its owner's head. Predictably, once they are undone, their smoke joins Aqua's shadow and she shudders, starts to pace like a caged beast.

When it's just Aqua and Barkley standing, Cinderella is back on her feet and terrified. The darkness is so dense around Aqua's left hand and face that it billows out into the open air like steam, and even through her blindfold her golden eyes are aglow. Nothing prepares Cinderella for the grin that stretches over Aqua's lips, like she's  _ enjoying _ the melee, throwing herself headfirst into it.

Barkley roars and takes a swipe. Aqua  _ catches _ the blade with her left hand and doesn't even flinch, and the split second of genuine surprise on Barkley's face grants her the opening she needs. Just as Cinderella hears the raised voice of Gregory and his own pack of guards, Aqua flips the Keyblade in her hand and makes her cut, hip to shoulder, shredding through Barkley's coat and chest with disgusting ease. The spray of blood that follows is dramatic, but even from here Cinderella can see that it's not a death wound—though he certainly wouldn't last a full day without medical attention, at least.

Aqua dismisses the Keyblade when she picks up on the incoming voices. Her hands are slick and red and turning into shadows at the fingertips, and the smoke grows worse as Barkley's joins in, but Cinderella shouts,  _ “Aqua!” _ and takes off at a run.

Aqua has turned to face her, and the sight of her nearly sends Cinderella to the ground again; the front of her tunic is streaked in blood, the left sleeve almost fully dyed crimson, and her left palm drips it freely. But Cinderella does not let the blood or the darkness stop her as she collides against Aqua's front, summons the surface-level power of her light, and wraps both arms around her waist. Aqua snarls at the contact at first, but clamps both arms around her waist. The darkness in her has grown to a fever pitch, like an unsupervised hearth consuming its kindling too fast. It recoils at Cinderella's intervention, fleeing deeper into Aqua and writhing in agony at the light; she can tell by Aqua's ragged breathing and the forceful expulsion of smoke that she's done her part to keep things under control, but perhaps only just.

They turn as one when Gregory runs into view, then stops cold. He looks upon the scene as his men gather behind him, and then looks to Cinderella. “Highness, are you alright?”

“Y-yes. Barkley and his men fired at Aqua, and...and at me.” She swallows hard, trying to remain calm for the situation when she doesn't feel calm at all. Aqua trembles in her grip and Cinderella is grateful for the cloak; it hides most of the damage done, at the very least. “Aqua protected me.”

“Thank God for you then, Miss Aqua,” Gregory says with a heavy sigh of relief. “We'll escort these...these  _ vermin _ to the infirmary, then the dungeons. They'll be in for a proper trial.”

Aqua gestures quickly with her right hand. The ice encasing the rifleman's legs melts quickly and seamlessly, and he falls to the ground with a groan.

“Gregory,” Cinderella says after a moment, “would you escort Aqua and me back to her room? Fast, and discreetly, please.”

“Yes, your Highness,” Gregory murmurs. He takes Aqua's right as Cinderella manages her left and they flee the gardens. Cinderella cups her palm against Aqua's, ignores the hot drip of blood against her hands as she tries to stem the bleeding through pressure alone. With Gregory's help they shuffle Aqua into the room quickly, and after he's brought in a bucket of water and rolls of bandages she catches his wrist with her clean hand, knows she looks like an absolute fright but Gregory says nothing, simply stands at attention and waits for her order.

“Don't tell my husband,” is what comes out of her mouth, desperate and breathless. “I can't—we can't deal with that right now. I need to tend to her.”

“I'll spread the word, your Highness,” Gregory says grimly. “I'll set guards to both doors and keep him out until you are ready.”

She sniffles. Swallows the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Gregory...”

He salutes her, polished boot heels clicking, then he walks out of the room. Cinderella follows to shut the door to lock it, hearing the muffled din of his voice shouting orders. Aqua sits heavily upon the bed, her right hand fumbling with the ties of her cloak as she stares thoughtlessly ahead, her breathing ragged and weak.

“Oh, Aqua,” Cinderella breathes. She takes over, lightly batting Aqua's trembling hand aside to undo the knot of her cloak, and pushes it off of her shoulders. There's still a golden glow pulsing behind the blindfold, from what Cinderella can only assume is from Aqua blinking—what she  _ hopes _ is Aqua blinking—and Cinderella stares at her hair for a moment, seeing that it's gone a lighter shade of white, the streaks of blue gone a dark grey. There's still a bit of blue at the roots, but even that seems to have shrunk.

More alarming, perhaps, is what Cinderella feels as she puts her fingertips to skin; darkness shrieking and beating and furious, the calm ebb and flow against light cast aside in its near domination.

“It's inside me,” Aqua whispers like a frightened child, her skin paper white. The shaking spreads throughout her whole body until Cinderella is convinced that she would shatter into little pieces were it not for the solid frame of her skin. “The darkness...it's....i-it's so deep, I can't see the end to it—”

“Just breathe,” Cinderella orders, breath hitched. Tears well in her sore eyes and Cinderella lets them fall, lets the release of emotion happen before it can overwhelm her. “Give me your arm, darling.”

The sleeve of Aqua's tunic is ruined beyond repair. The injury beneath bleeds sluggishly, red and bright to her twisted relief. It's a bit deeper than she expected, but not bone-deep, and it can be healed. She inspects Aqua's hand next, drawing breath through her teeth in sympathy at how painful it must be. Cinderella hooks her fingers to the edges of the torn sleeve and widens the rip, jerking at material until it tears messily all the way around. She pulls it down Aqua's arm and tosses it to ground, and then she brings a bit of her own magic to her hands—nothing as dramatic as Aqua's fire and ice, just a bit of innate mending she'd discovered back at Hollow Bastion—and cups Aqua's injured hand first.

Green light and the smell of flowers fill the room. When Cinderella draws her hands away she sees that, blood aside, Aqua's hand is restored and perfect. Not even a scar. She repeats the spell and swipes away the laceration against Aqua's bicep.

“Do you have any other wounds?” Cinderella asks quietly.

“No,” comes the strained croak.

Cinderella brings the bucket and bandages and cloth over, dunks the rag in and wrings it out. She scrubs at the blood on Aqua's arm gently, ignoring how the darkness strains to escape her, head spinning as she tries to figure out what happened. It's as if the riled darkness of the men had escaped to Aqua as soon as they could—as if Aqua provided a better host.

And then Cinderella goes cold as she remembers Tremaine's room. At how the shadows had peeled themselves from the walls and slid into Aqua, how it had been repeated with the servant's passage. How strange her darkness feels—warm one minute, rabid the next—

It's not  _ her _ darkness at all. Aqua unconsciously draws the darkness  _ into _ her.

She washes her hands, drops the rag into pink-tinged water. Cups Aqua's face with them, hears the startled draw of breath. Feels the roaring lingering, ready to swallow Aqua whole.

_ I won't let it. I won't allow that. _

And Cinderella closes her eyes and reaches inside of herself, finds that sparkling, firebrand light in her own heart, and reaches out with it, channels it into her hands. Aqua draws in a ragged gasp, her hands flying to Cinderella's wrists in alarm—and at the first touch of that light, the darkness  _ shrivels _ .

Exploring deeper, Cinderella can feel the difference immediately; the darkness that Aqua's drawn in is in shattered fragments, bits and pieces and scraps that come from all corners. When Cinderella bids the light to touch them they dissolve without quarrel; Cinderella can feel it steaming out of Aqua's skin. The sheer  _ amount _ makes her ache for Aqua—Cinderella suddenly has a very, very clear idea of where Aqua has been trapped—so she steadies her resolve, and disregards the risks inherent in dipping her heart so close to Aqua's.

It's almost like...dusting, in a way. Cobwebs of long-held grudges to be swept away, debris of shattered memories to ferry away to destruction. Each point of contact with these fragments leaves behind a flavor on her tongue; the charred aftertaste is always the same, but the notes are different. Sometimes, it's the heavy, syrupy herbal bite of sorrow. Sometimes the bitter flood of envy, or the chalky residue of self-importance. No memories, thank God, because she knows that the remnants of Tremaine are somewhere in these corroded walls of phantasmal being, and she's not ready to confront that yet, selfish as it may be of her. The further Cinderella directs her light down the corridors of Aqua's heart, the more aware she becomes of something gliding against the brilliant light that Cinderella doesn't think of as her own; that center-of-the-sun radiance is only one of seven, after all.

A shadow, practically purring as it curls itself around her exploring touch. It seeks her out at every turn, balancing, guiding her to the places where the darkness has rooted itself so very deeply. These aren't to be touched yet, Cinderella knows. This is a kind of healing that must be done slowly, carefully. A stroke against the worst of it—a gauntlet thrown, and a reassurance in one—and as Cinderella begins to draw herself and the light away, the shadow follows her longingly.

It's...alarmingly  _ un _ alarming. That incandescent part of her own heart sees no danger in the darkness that twines itself around her like a shroud, so on instinct Cinderella does not fear it. She feels so warm and, in some odd way,  _ safe _ . This is not the kind of darkness to fear; it's the shadow of its owner, inverted but still the same. It's  _ Aqua's _ darkness. Aqua would never hurt her.

It lets her go with a lingering, static caress, and Cinderella drags her eyes open. Full awareness is slow to trickle in; the first thing she can pull together is warm, damp breath against her chin. Her hands have changed positions from where they were both cupping Aqua's cheeks. One has reached around to tangle in the long white strands at the nape of her neck; the other rests directly over her heart. Cinderella dips her eyes down, sluggishly alarmed to see that her fingers are  _ inside the skin _ to the knuckles. Surrounded by light and magic, yes, and withdrawing them brings no blood at all, doesn't even hurt Aqua, but still alien and strange to see.

She also notes, distantly, that the position they're in can be seen as...inappropriate. She's moved between Aqua's legs, pressed nearly chest to chest. Aqua's hands themselves have pressed against her waist and ribs. Her expression, which is hard to miss this...this perilously close is...she looks awed, breathless. There's color to her cheeks, rich and rosy, her lips parted and trembling. The golden glow that had lingered is gone completely now, but Cinderella isn't fool enough to believe that her eyes have changed color at all.

They're both breathing heavily. It's intimate and horribly quiet, in this bubble of pink-tinged afternoon, save for their rapid panting. Beneath Cinderella's fingers as she moves the hand against Aqua's heart to trail languidly up her bared throat, cupping her cheek once more, the same shadow lingers just beneath. Her body's reactions startle her quite a bit, because God forgive her, she wants nothing more than to press every last shred of light she has in her into Aqua, skin against skin—

( _ “How I long to burn in you,” _ the golden-eyed creature from her dream had crooned.

And now, oh now, now Cinderella wants nothing more than to let it, let  _ her _ , crawl inside and burn to anoint her with ashes once more.)

“Stay with me,” Cinderella manages, her words tumbling off of her heavy tongue. “Stay with me, won't you, please?”

“Yes,” Aqua says quietly, the word no more than a puff of air against—against her lips, oh—Cinderella draws Aqua's head to rest beneath her chin, lets her listen to Cinderella's heart, instead of feeling that burn of temptation.

“Your heart is so hurt, but it's still standing, proud and strong.” Cinderella swallows hard. “This darkness that torments you, the darkness you fought today, that's  _ not yours _ . Let me get rid of it.”

“Y-yes, yes, please—” a whine, a whimper, against her throat.

“I'll protect your heart if you protect me,” Cinderella says, petting through her hair, eyes fluttering shut. “I'll give you all the light you can stand. I won't let you fall. Just stay with me.”

Aqua's hands grip the back of her waist and she hisses, “ _ Yes, _ ” and begins to cry, quietly, with relief. Cinderella holds her through it until there's a discreet knock at the door—Charming asking to enter. Aqua nods, Cinderella raises her voice to let him know it's alright to unlock the door. He enters, and sees them—and the rags in rust-tinged water, the remains of Aqua's torn sleeve draped over the rim of the bucket—and Cinderella nodding. Her slipper, she notes, is clutched in his hand.


	5. Earth Death (I Can Hear Your Laughter On The Wind)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My men cannot get out of being pulled into the earth / ...Come kill me / I seem so brittle
> 
> ( I still feel you breathing on my neck / I can feel you waking on my shoulder / ...I can hear your laughter on the wind / It breaks through the darkness when I cannot carry on )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy. 
> 
> TW: Depictions of PTSD, hallucinations (auditory and visual), discussions of mental illness and severe trauma, self hate

Two weeks pass in peace. Aqua and Cinderella do not speak of their moment, and have not repeated it since. There is no need, not yet; though Aqua requires her blindfold and cloaks are still necessary at all times when the sun is high, she walks with an elegant ease and gets stronger every day. She's wearing the first of the special uniforms that Charming's commissioned for her; instead of the crimson coat embroidered with gold thread, she's donned in white, blue, silver. The boots remain the same black leather but the contrasting palette of colors makes it clear who alone Aqua answers to. Not even Gregory or Charming's orders overrule what Cinderella asks of her.

In another person's hands, such absolute power would be cause for concern. But Aqua knows that if anyone or anything should be trusted to hold absolute dominion over her, it should be a Princess of Heart.

The Realm of Light grows easier to exist in with every hour. The longer she feels the drag of time, the less temporary she feels. Touring the castle with Cinderella and Charming, exploring it top to bottom and mapping out how it looks at all hours draped with every color of shade takes up much of her time. She has no need for etiquette lessons and formalities, as far as the Royals are concerned. Aqua's first priority is to keep Cinderella alive as her husband leaves for war. And Aqua is satisfied with that.

After all, what good had she managed to do thirteen years ago? Save for moments of heroics, _cleaning up the messes Terra left behind_ **_racing to save Ventus from his shad_** **—**

She bites her tongue. Hard. The pain of sharpened teeth sinking into sensitive muscle, drawing blood, is enough to rally her mind off of that path. Something brushes her arm, and she smells the lingering scent sage and oiled leather, the damp-earth waft of patchouli. Terra. Aqua ignores it because there is nothing to suggest he is actually there with her, no overwhelming darkness at her elbow.

_ Why aren't you looking for me? _ Terra asks her casually, as she shadows Cinderella and Charming as they chat and walk to the mess hall. More ambassadors from some sovereign nation Aqua has never heard of await for lunch.  _ Aqua? Can you hear me? Aqua, please. Aqua. AquaAquaquaquaqua, _

Her own name becomes indistinguishable after a few moments. Sounds more like gnats buzzing in her ears. Aqua ignores it. Tries to. Terra's hand is burning against her shoulder, through the robin's egg waistcoat, silver vest, and cream colored tunic. He is not here. He is not here. He is gone.

**_Smothered by the darkness in his heart!,_ ** Terra roars so loudly that her teeth would rattle, if he were real at all. Aqua is used to these phantoms by now. They took on darker shapes in the Realm of Darkness, real shapes that could hurt her flesh and cleave pieces of her heart, but in the Realm of Light they are little more than whispers her mind creates when she feels nostalgic.

She scents young light and embers of shadow coming up from behind. Another sniff as she turns her head to investigate introduces lye soap and wet wood.

“Herman,” she greets quietly, cordially, as the young man scampers up. He takes Terra's place at her side and Terra is gone, gone gone gone,  _ dead _ , and gone, but gone to let her have peace.

“Afternoon, Miss Aqua!” The young man's bright silhouette struggles with something; a basket of linens. She plucks it from his hands easily, cocks a brow in challenge when he sputters: “Hey, give it back!”

“I will. Eventually. Did you need something from me?”

“No,” Herman grouches lightheartedly. His tone is petulant but his heart shines. “Just wanted to talk a bit, see how the new clothes were treating you. Mum needs to know if anything pinches.”

“Everything fits fine. Comfortable, roomy.”

“Brilliant!” She hears a grin in his voice that cracks. Ven's voice spills from his lips as he continues, “And the binding garment you wanted instead of uh, a corset?”

She takes more than a moment to reply, because she needs to parse the words out of Ventus's phantom voice. Runs the vowels and consonants through the grinding filter of her mind until that slightly from-the-back-of-the-throat accent takes center stage instead of Ven's twilight-dusk tones.

“It's as tight as it should be for what I need,” Aqua says flatly, schooling her nerves as they rattle. Her heart howls. Every click of her boot heel is followed by a metallic echo. Her Phantom never makes an appearance in Cinderella's presence, spooked away by the Light inside of her, but Aqua knows that tonight will be a trial and a half. She'll be lucky to get sleep. “I was under the impression that it's inappropriate to ask a woman about her undergarments.”

“I—I'm so sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean nothin' by it,” Herman whispers quietly. His silhouette droops. “S'just, Mum said I needed to—”

“I know. And I've told you what you needed to hear.” They come across a fork in the hall, one Aqua remembers taking two weeks prior. She drops the linen basket in Herman's startled arms and walks off without another word.

It's cruel to do that to him. Aqua knows it. It's not the boy's fault his earnest questions and brightness remind her so much of Ven. It's not his fault that she has become so twisted that the memory of those she's lost makes her all the more cold, the more furious. She should mourn them, and she does. But Aqua is also very keenly aware that if Ventus had just  _ listened _ to her in the first place, had obeyed, then she could have caught Terra and held him back and  **_would Terra have listened to you in the first place? You hold yourself so highly._ **

Not here. No. Aqua quickens her steps subtly until she's in the corona brightness of Cinderella. The metallic click of boots fades entirely. She hears the rustle of light cloth and silk as Cinderella turns to look over her shoulder.

“Aqua?” she asks gently, “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I'm sorry if I interrupted you both,” Aqua replies, “I didn't want to be left behind.”

“That's alright, my friend,” Charming says. “Any trouble with the young lad back there?”

“Herman,” Cinderella says.

“Herman,” Charming amends.

“No,” Aqua reports. She does not elaborate. “I just wanted to carry the basket for him. He seemed to be having trouble.”

“And God knows you've got more than your fair share of muscle to lend,” Charming teases lightly. “I dare say he looks up to you, Aqua.”

“He shouldn't.” Aqua inhales sharply, and adds, upon feeling Cinderella's burning, worried gaze against her cheek, “I mean, my strength lies mostly in acrobatics and magic. Different skillset, different needs. I doubt his mother would want him practicing anything.”

“We're actually quite open with magic,” Cinderella says as they approach the dining hall. Aqua can smell the light soups and roasted fowl even from this distance. “Fairy tales are much easier to believe when the queen has a Godmother who can turn a pumpkin to a carriage.”

“He doesn't have the stamina for spells,” Aqua murmurs distractedly, yet honestly.

“Well,” Cinderella says. Silence follows; then, “That's a shame. I think you'd be an excellent teacher.”

Aqua bites her tongue again. The just-healed cut in her flesh is reopened without remorse. She cannot tell Cinderella that all her attempts to teach and tutor and look after have ended in dismal failure. She's a bodyguard now. She can handle that. No human here is a match for her and she's not even felt a stirring of Heartless, Barkley and his men aside—even then, they were more seeds than sprouts. No more saving the worlds or chasing ghosts or throwing herself away. Just protecting Cinderella, and her light, and living for herself.

And if it feels like a terrible betrayal, well, Aqua is used to that feeling, so she'll just get over it.

Guards—a wealth of light to balance the darkness in them, handpicked by Gregory, solid choices—open the doors for the King and Queen. Aqua takes that silent cue to enter first, her senses on high alert. Five guests at the table: two men, three women. The men have a bit more darkness in them than she's comfortable with. Two of the women seem average, but their darkness has bitter notes of envy creeping beneath their expensive perfume. The last guest can't be older than twenty or twenty-two. Aqua remembers being that young, and while the Realm of Darkness has preserved her flesh, Aqua can find nothing in herself that would make it easy or even possible to relate to the young woman.

She's fine, either way. Brighter than the others. No threat there.

That done, Aqua steps to the side and nods to the regents. Charming escorts Cinderella to her seat as the guests stand in deference to the country's leaders. They don't sit until Charming does. Aqua takes her place behind Cinderella's seat, hands linked behind her back. Out of habit she sniffs over the food and finds no trace of poison or deceit, so she reaches down to the arm of the chair and taps a finger against it twice. Cinderella's hand shifts and covers her own, briefly, and gives a squeeze.

“Who is  _ this _ charming creature?” one of the men appraises, his oil-slick silhouette turned Aqua's direction. The perfume on his skin matches none of the women seated by his end of the grand table; either he's left his wife at home and traveling with family, or he's an adulterer. She measures him by the shade she scents and snorts very quietly.  _ The latter. _

“This is Aqua,” Cinderella says. Her hand squeezes again, proprietorially perhaps. “She is my esteemed and trusted friend, and personal guard.”

“How unique of you, your Highness,” one of the women croon.

Such a liar. Aqua can hear the distasteful undertones and growls low, ready to reprimand her. Cinderella pinches the back of her hand softly, then pats it once. A signal for her to mind her tongue in front of Charming's very important guests. Aqua finally draws her hand away and loosely stands at rest, stretching her senses to accompany the entire room and the corridors just beyond. She makes sure that her grim countenance falls upon the woman who spoke to Cinderella in her dual-sworded tone and is rewarded with a subtle spike of anxiety in her scent.

_ Good _ , Terra whispers just behind her ear.

Not listening. Can't listen to him.

His breath is on her neck as he speaks, but she does not hear him. Just the soft din of political conversation that she tunes out, the strangely quiet sounds of the castle at work. She's aware, on some level, of the quiet young woman's attention on her, but she makes no move to acknowledge it. Frankly, the thought of any kind of attention makes her skin crawl, but she recognizes the pattern of those looks, the shy fiddling of silverware—or at least recognizes how the novels she'd used to read painted them out to be.

_ She's looking at you _ , Terra tells her as he slumps against the table. Aqua goes very, very still.  _ You should be looking too. Look. Aqua look, please. Please. I'm still here. Aqua! _

She jerks her head and steps closer to Cinderella. Unlike her Phantom, Terra comes and goes as he pleases, so even if she crawled into Cinderella's  _ lap _ he would still whisper and plead, but being close is a source of comfort anyway. Lunch crawls on until the bustle of serving staff mark the end of it. She handles Cinderella's chair this time, helps her scoot back and offers an arm for her to rise gracefully. She hands Cinderella to Charming with a deferential bow of her head, and hears their quiet  _ thank you's _ as if filtered.

“Um.” A clear, sweet voice rings, bell-like, among the noise. “May I ask something of you, Your Highness?”

“Why certainly. What can I help you with, Annabelle?”

_ Annabelle _ ; a name to attach to the young woman glittering with light.

“If it's not...if it wouldn't cause too much trouble, I'd love to walk through the gardens. With...um, Miss Aqua as an escort.”

Silence bubbles over the light conversation. The servants continue to collect plates and silverware, but they've an ear perked to the events, Aqua knows. She gets the best gossip from them, after all. Cinderella seems stunned—by the request or by the bravery of the girl to request it to begin with—but recovers after a moment.

“I—well, if Aqua agrees to it—”

“I think that's a wonderful idea,” Charming interjects. Aqua squeezes her hands into fists beneath her cloak, struggling not to snap at him in front of the throng of ambassadors. No reason to let foreign powers think that there's dissension in the ranks, even if she wants to tell Charming to shove it. If she does, or disagrees with him outright, it could paint a target on Cinderella's back. Weakness in the home front to be exploited.

What's his game, Aqua wonders, immediately suspicious. Is this retribution for confronting him two weeks ago?

“I won't leave unless Gregory can take my place here,” Aqua says finally, in a measured voice that sounds more stable than she feels. Truthfully, she's terrified. Outside of Cinderella's sphere of influence, the Phantom can talk all she wants.

She can sense a surprised and then pleased ripple of emotion from Cinderella. Does she think Aqua is taking initiative to be social? Then let her think it, Aqua decides. No reason to slap this bit of positivity out of Cinderella's hands. Not when Aqua still weighs her down with worry.

“Then I'll send a call for Gregory,” Charming beams. “We'll all wait for him in the sitting room, yes? With tea, I suggest.”

Murmurs of agreement go up from their guests. The Royal Family leads the way into their sitting room. Aqua repeats her duties to clear the room, a quick inhale to check the tea is safe to drink. She does allow herself the indulgence of a biscuit, but only because it's cinnamon crumble and Cinderella offers it anyway. Aqua is careful to keep her napkin in hand and beneath the biscuit to catch any crumbs that fall. She's self conscious when eating while blindfolded, and tries to not partake unless she is alone or in a preferably darkened room, but she can't say no to a treat.

She doesn't accept a cup of tea when it's offered, because she wants the sweetness to linger against her tongue before the inevitable headache that will follow her today. A bit of light before she tries to brave the darkness again.  _ Please, no more. No more of this. I've had enough _ . She does not voice her objections out loud, not when Gregory comes in, not when tea is adjourned, and not when Cinderella tells her, “Take your time. Enjoy your day! I'm safe with Charming and Gregory.”

At the very least, there's no more food to be served. And Gregory is a good fighter, keen-eyed and sharp-witted. He has his share of darkness, but he's chained and corralled it in such a way that Aqua envies him deeply. Were he to manifest a Keyblade of his own, Aqua would not at all be surprised. Not that she'd perform any kind of ceremony for him.

So Aqua allows herself to remain behind as a woman escorts Annabelle to her arm. Some words are said, something about safety, and Aqua mumbles blankly, “No harm will come to her.” She's not even sure if that's what she needs to say, but it works, because the woman that reeks of expensive perfume leaves with the others.

**_How does it feel to be left behind again? Cinderella couldn't wait to be rid of you._ **

Aqua struggles to inhale at the words crooned into her ear and, perhaps a bit stiffly, extends an arm. “The gardens, then?”

“Y-yes, um, please.” Shy fingers touch her arm and even the gentle touch feels like knives being driven into her skin. Aqua tolerates it, much like she tolerates the Phantom pacing around her like a hungry shark. “Thank you for humoring  **_me, you know you can't block me out for long. You can't escape._ ** ”

“Certainly,” Aqua says. Forces her legs to move and makes for the gardens. Every muscle screams in agony and she knows the tension will leave her all the more exhausted come the morning—she won't make it through the night. She says nothing, makes no conversation, and struggles to keep her senses about her as they step into the sunshine.

“You're...very strong,” Annabelle observes after a tragically deep bout of awkward silence. Her fingers squeeze against Aqua's bicep. “Whatever lead you to becoming Her Highness's bodyguard?”

“Fate.” The Phantom is in pursuit. Aqua can hear her shifting through the grass and needs to remember that the Phantom cannot touch her in the Realm of Light, that these are auditory hallucinations and she's dealt with them all day, she doesn't need to snap. “I've trained to protect...people, all my life.”

“Oh  _ wow _ , really?” Annabelle sounds enraptured. “ **_Is that what you call it? Protection? You were trained to slaughter the Darkness and hoard the Light. You know it. Eraqus made sure of it._ ** Where are you from?”

“Not this country,” is Aqua's easy answer. “I'm from a...far away place. Across the sea.” She can barely scent her way around the hedges.  _ Keep it together. Keep it together. _ **_How is he, by the way? How is our father?_ **

The Phantom's thoughts aren't hers. No, they are. They are, Aqua struggles to accept, but they've no place here. Her heart beats sluggishly onward, but does not stir at the panic creeping up her throat. She's covered in a cold sweat. Feels trapped. _I didn't want to leave her._ Had to. Had to, to protect her. Duty.

“Aqua?”

“Yes?” she answers faster than she intends, her voice coming out in a waspish tone. “I'm sorry. My mind drifted. Are you alright?”

“Y-yes, I am. I feel...odd.”

“Odd?” The Phantom can be forgotten. As much as Aqua does not want to be here in the gardens with this waif she barely cares for, she still wants to keep her safe. “Are you ill?”

“The sun,” Annabelle says quietly, “may we be out of it? It's so hot.”

“Of...course.” She raises her nose and scents her way to a quiet, cute little gazebo built close to the roses. They're not to bloom for a few weeks yet but their bushes are trimmed what Aqua assumes are pleasing shapes. If not, then they're at least neat and orderly and the area is shaded, most importantly. She lengthens her strides and takes care not to rush Annabelle to the point of tripping. Somehow, she doubts that would go well with the guests.

She allows Annabelle up the few stairs of the gazebo first and hears her sit with a relieved sigh. The quiet snap of a fan follows. Aqua herself feels a bit better as she enters the shade, but she makes no move to sit by Annabelle; she stands and crosses her arms for lack of anything to do with them.

“You're an enigma,” Annabelle says, her voice softened to a dreamy quality. “A woman who wears men's clothes. A blindfolded warrior who doesn't carry a sword on her hip. The queen's personal guard, one of a kind.”

Aqua remains silent. Terra's cold hands are back, wrapped around her throat. He pants against the crown of her head and sobs,  _ Find me, I'll kill you first, find me. _

“You are gorgeous,” Annabelle says in a hitched breath. Aqua hears the shift of her skirts. Smells something odd. “Oh, you are ever so pretty. There is something about you that pulls the eye.”

Ventus's silhouette on the bench beside Annabelle. Her hand passes through his face as she braces an arm against the bench and makes to rise. Aqua does not move to help her, cannot move. Her Phantom stands right in front of her; Aqua can see the sharp bright blue of her eyes piercing through the blindfold. Terra wails. Ventus's body crumbles.

Annabelle approaches. The Phantom dissolves. The overwhelming stench of darkness floods Aqua's nose just as she sees the darkness in Annabelle's heart, small as it is, roar to life and rush to consume the light there.

“What are you?” Annabelle rasps, just before her hands grab onto Aqua's wrists. Ichorstink and scorched ozone leach from the pores in her skin. “You drive me mad. This has never happened to me before. I have my girl at home to consider. Karoline. She would die, she would  _ die _ if she knew what I thought of when I saw you.”

Aqua is frozen. Her heart shrieks in terror and rapture. She wishes Cinderella were here, needs her here,  _ I can't breathe, _ left to protect her, this is what Aqua can do, protect that light, protect her friend, she needs it, needs to protect—

**_But who will protect me?_ ** The Phantom asks in a scared and small voice, bringing life to the fear Aqua holds.

“I am not an unfaithful woman,” Annabelle sobs, before her lips find Aqua's. The taste of oil floods Aqua's mouth as it's forced open, as the darkness in Annabelle's heart pours into her own. It's not a kiss so much as a violation of them both, the darkness clawing its way into Aqua much the same as Barkley's had, ripping free of its host to find sweeter pastures. Annabelle moans in relief against her body; the Phantom returns it, mournfully sweet.

**_Why am I not worth protecting?_ ** The Phantom whispers as the last of Annabelle's stirred darkness vanishes into Aqua's heart.  **_I am so tired. I want to see the light again._ **

Annabelle pulls away, drowsy and confused. Startled. “What… Where am I? Miss Aqua?”

“Kuh,” Aqua feels wetness spilling down her chin, can't tell if it's real or imagined, blood or drool or darkness or vomit. “Karoline.”

“H-how do you know that name?”

“Leave,” Aqua bites. Annabelle hovers, and Aqua roars, “ _ LEAVE! _ ” She reaches back and digs her nails into the gazebo's railing, holding on with every last scrap of strength left inside of her. Everything hurts. The sun, the light, the smells. She wants to crawl beneath the earth and sleep. Wants to bury herself into the shadows and melt into them. Her heart strains under the pressure.

Terra's arms are holding her. His tears wet the crook of her neck.  _ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I did this to you. I did this to you, Aqua, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please find me. _

Please find me, Aqua finds herself thinking as she sways on her feet, gasping in breath, shaking so hard that she fears she'll shatter and die on the spot—fears? No, she  _ yearns _ for it _ — _ wouldn't it be so simple to lay down and sleep? Sleep. To give up on being Aqua and just sleep.

**_Smothered by the darkness_ ** , the Phantom warns.

Aqua tips her head back and her mouth opens in a silent, horrified scream. The impressions roil against her; a moment of  _ oh, what a lovely woman by the queen's side _ had turned to pervasive looks and studies at lunch, helpless not to, and the guilt swallowing it  _ but Karoline is so much lighter, doesn't look nearly so sad, Karoline, Karoline, Karol  _ until the name stopped having meaning, until something else was chanting  _ join her join her join her crawl inside _ . Now it has, the dusk-soaked flavors of Darkness coating Aqua’s throat, burning in her gut, her heart stewing in it.

Aqua falls to her knees as the Phantom drapes around her, weighing her down.

**_The light can't protect you forever. You must remember how to fight._ ** But it sounds less like her doubts, and more a cautious warning.  **_Run._ **

She peels herself from the wood and stumbles out into the sun. A hoarse shout rips free from her throat. The light feels like hammers pounding against her body; the stench of sizzling skin tickles in her nose and she pats at her hands, her waist, terrified for a second that she's set alight despite the lack of pain. No heat or flames greet her hands, but the smell remains. She heaves and loses her meager breakfast against the grass. Everything hurts, just as badly as when she had first been lost to the Realm of Darkness.

**_Run!_ ** The Phantom can't touch her but she desperately wants to, swiping at Aqua's collapsed body with her hands and snarling. And Aqua knows she shouldn't listen to her—knows that, while the Phantom may have her thoughts, they are nothing more than the doubts and the lies that she harbors— _ or are they? _ How could she claim to know her own mind, when she can barely feel her heart? Her heart pulses so painfully in her chest, strained and ready to break. Overflowing with darkness.

Will she become a Heartless now? Aqua braces herself for it, ready to fight back tooth and claw if she has to. Breaking...almost...no. She's still here, still in the realm of light. There are voices coming from the castle, calling for her, but with her senses so befuddled, she can barely acknowledge them. All she sees are ghosts. Ventus and three echoes of his figure sprint at her, through her, and each time he passes she wants to cling to him. Wants him to be real so,  _ so  _ badly.  _ My boy, part of me, where did you go? _ Gone. No, not gone. Here. Here and running from her again.

**_It's a trick. He's still sleeping. It's a trick!_ **

Aqua heaves herself up. Terra, from a great distance, shouts her name. The Phantom is hot on her heels  **_no stop do not go after him, this is not Ventus he is not here he is gone, stop, STOP!_ ** as she runs after Ventus—in the end, Terra must know, as she so bitterly does, that she picks Ventus over him. Ventus, who was so broken and abused and ripped apart by Xehanort, her boy,  _ hers _ ; who was it that  _ stayed with him  _ while he was lost from his memories, who stayed by his side those first few days when he knew nothing but his own name?

Hers. Her boy. Might as well be her son, how she feels of him. Young enough to be her brother but her son,  _ hers _ —

(“This darkness isn't yours,” Cinderella has told her, hands clutching to her face, wrapped around her like a balm,

So does that mean this possessiveness isn't hers either? How much of Aqua remains, after the Darkness has feasted on her for more than a decade?)

She's already running. Ventus vanishes over the wrought iron fencing, and she flings herself up after him, summons a bit of magic to take another leap in midair, and clears it without concern. The wind whips and moans around her ears and drowns out Terra and the Phantom as she hurtles to the ground. More magic eases the landing as she rolls through the momentum, already taking off at a sprint the moment she comes up on her toes.

Why is she chasing him? Why bother? Aqua's done this already. Been through the pain of coming so close to saving Ventus only to just miss him, lose him. Aqua doesn't care. This time is different. This time she's strong, stronger than she  _ ever _ was in the Realm of Darkness. She needs him, needs something,  _ anything _ from before she became this.

She chases him down streets and alleys and tears around corners, leaping over carriages and onto roofs. People scream in shock, animals rear and buck their dissent. Aqua does not care. He's always just turning around corners or slipping out of reach. Aqua's feet ache from the chase and her lungs are ready to collapse from how hard she breathes. Cobblestone gives to gravel which gives to packed earth as she keeps running, feeling the sun dip over the horizon— _ How long have I been at this? _ —when she scents a tear lined with darkness, sees Ven's silhouette vanish into it.

Aqua nearly throws herself in headfirst when something inside of her heart pulls back. She skids to a stop and clutches her chest, doubling over as it sings white-hot inside of her. Light, Aqua recognizes. Light in her heart. Light leading back to—

_ Cinderella. _

The sun vanishes. Aqua works the blindfold down to hang around her neck and opens her eyes as the last bits of sunset paint the world in shades of crimson-gold and violet. The brightness burns her eyes, but she takes it, lets the tears of irritation and pain fall over her cheeks. Before her, maybe five or six feet away, sits the opening of a Corridor. The color of pitch and sable, it shimmers in the fabric of reality before beginning to shrink, slowly.

Ventus is not through there. Terra is not through there. Her Phantom, lingering just behind her, isn't even there.

_ What am I doing? _ Aqua feels the darkness in her fight for control again, but she sucks in a breath of cold and clean air and thinks about the light Cinderella painstakingly unearthed, holds fast. Both hands are clasped over her heart as she bows her head, unable to watch the Corridor's entrance begin to mend itself and wisp away into nothing.

_ What was I trying to do? _

Her knees turn to jelly. Aqua falls to them as the last of the Corridor's darkness is carried away on the wind. Her Phantom is silent, but Aqua is keenly aware that she's  _ there _ , lingering, waiting for some kind of signal. Aqua isn't sure how many hours pass as she sits there on the dirt road leading out of the city. The sweat and tears have all dried up when she hears the rattle of a carriage coming from behind, a horse's steady trot dully hitting the dirt. She doesn't move. Can't seem to.

The carriage slows to a stop, the driver clicking his tongue. The horse relents with a soft whinny, pawing at the dirt. The opening of a door. Then, “ _ Aqua, _ ” Cinderella gasps.

With numb fingers Aqua tugs her blindfold back into place before Cinderella's light can sear through her retinas again. A body drops beside hers and arms are flung around her shoulders, pulling her weary head against heady warmth. Cinderella goes very still, no doubt feeling the new deluge of wickedness worming around Aqua's heart, and simply clings tighter and rests a cheek against the top of her head as the hood of Aqua's cloak flutters off. Cinderella runs fingers through her hair, and Aqua's eyes close.

“I see them,” she admits softly. “Ventus. Terra.” She can't talk about the Phantom yet, the old wound still too terrible to name. “Not ghosts. Hallucinations.”

“Oh, my  _ darling. _ ” Cinderella's embrace grows tighter. Compassion flows from her and Aqua drinks it in as silence, save for the sounds of Cinderella's heartbeat and the ambiance of nightfall, drift around her.

“I didn't say anything because I didn't—I didn't want to admit it.” Aqua's voice trembles. “I chased Ventus here. I th-thought I could catch him this time.”

“What do you need?” Cinderella asks her. There's the sound of tears in her voice and the smell of salt. Aqua whines low in her throat, grasps one of Cinderella's sleeves with her fingertips. “What do you need me to do for you? To help you?”

“N-not, not here. Please. Too open.”  _ Too close to where that Corridor was. _

“Gregory,” Cinderella calls over her shoulder, “Help me...”

More footfalls. Gregory's gentle and strong hand on the other side of her. “Propping you up seems to be becoming a habit, eh?” His tone is teasing and light, which softens even further as he adds, “I consider it an honor either way. Come now. We've got you.”

Aqua feels little more than dead weight as she is helped to her feet, then carted to the carriage. She wraps her cloak around herself as she huddles against the cushion, her head dropping against Cinderella's shoulder. She shivers as the cold of night finally begins to sink into her bones.

“Charming made sure to field any questions,” Cinderella says after a moment.

“How badly have I ruined the impression on the ambassadors?” Aqua asks drowsily.

“Considering we caught the  _ esteemed _ duke in the parlor with one of our maids,” Cinderella says in a pinched, dry voice, “I don't think  _ you _ have anything to worry about. His wife, on the other hand...”

She doesn't mean to. Really. She just...bursts into hysterical laughter against Cinderella's shoulder, so hard that her stomach starts to hurt and it's hard to breathe and she can feel the darkness in her receding on its own as she melts into her mirth, slamming a fist against the seat with her wheezing breaths. She even snorts a little.

“I  _ knew it! _ ” Aqua cackles.


	6. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will soften every edge, I'll hold the world to its best / And I'll do better / With every heartbeat I have left, I will defend your every breath / And I'll do better

Cinderella locks the other set of doors. It feels wrong, somehow, to do this while her husband sleeps off the stress of the day, but there's no other choice. Cinderella had felt a lurch in her heart as her husband and the ambassadors had been conversing in his study, documents and maps spread over his desk and looks of great consideration passed among them. She'd managed to steady herself on a chair and no one had been the wiser, but Cinderella had known in that instant that something had happened to Aqua.

Her suspicions had only been confirmed when Annabelle had been escorted in an hour later, flushed and still shaken. Her story had been that Aqua had sent her back to the castle as she'd sensed some form of interloper and taken after them. It was a lie, Cinderella knew, because Aqua wouldn't have had to _chase_ any threat when she was so powerful, but it was enough to keep the ambassadors calm.

“If Aqua's after them, then they don't stand a chance,” Cinderella had assured. She'd sent Gregory a searching look, and he'd caught on, and bent to murmur in the ear to one of the other guards in the room. The guard hesitated, nodded, and left the room. When Cinderella had drifted to Gregory's position, using the chance to pour Annabelle a glass of water from the crystal pitcher at the side of the room, he'd updated her.

“A small patrol will keep watch for her,” he'd whispered into her ear. “Hold fast, your Highness. We'll find her.”

How right he'd been. Charming had sent her a look when night fell and dinner was taken, but Cinderella was quick to parry away his suspicions as she spoke against his ear; “No doubt Aqua's searching out the Keyhole,” Cinderella had suggested, “that could take a day and a half.”

(She hadn't mentioned that little Kairi had taken pains to seal the Keyhole herself during a visit.)

He'd gone to bed and slept easily, especially after catching one of the dukes visiting in the parlor with a widowed maid when his wife was waiting in a guest chamber and spending a more than generous amount of time sorting out that entire mess before it turned into a situation. It was almost midnight by the time Cinderella could sneak out with Gregory, take a carriage and set off to find Aqua. The guardsman on patrol in the city had caught word of Aqua tearing down the streets in pursuit of something no one else had seen, heading north.

(And during the ride, Cinderella had the time to ruminate on that feeling. The buck and dive of her stomach as she’d felt the echo of Darkness gnawing its way into Aqua’s heart, sliding like worms in the dirt, like blood from a wound.

All too easily she remembers Aqua’s brutal takedown of Barkley and the other insurgents—who even now languish beneath in the dungeons, in chains, in disgrace. The sneer on Aqua’s face. But how cruel is she to think of that, when Aqua fought to _protect_ her in the first place?)

They'd found her, of course. Huddled in the middle of the dirt road and gasping with each breath, holding her hands to her chest. Aqua's confessions of hallucinations might have worried anyone else, considering that Aqua was meant to guard her, but Cinderella was simply not anyone else. Letting Aqua leave her side was a mistake—meant in good will of course, but until Aqua stops taking in others' darkness, until she _heals_ , it's not wise to let her far from Cinderella's light.

Which lead to now. Her hands against the final lock of the room while Aqua slips into the bath brought up for her, washing herself slowly. Cinderella has already had hers before the search, so she can only wait in her nightgown—the old blue one that still fits perfectly, still as soft as she remembers—for Aqua to finish. And to make sure she doesn't fall asleep in the bath to drown, obviously. Cinderella hears a splash, not too loud but louder than the sounds of simple washing, the sighs of effort. Aqua's getting out.

Cinderella turns slowly, trying not to get too much of an untoward eyeful, which fails spectacularly because Aqua's still somewhat in the tub, standing, rubbing furiously at her hair with a towel. Her mouth goes curiously dry as the flexing lines of muscle leads her traitorous eyes down until she reaches the interesting play of harsh angles and soft curves that make Aqua's bottom. That old maid was right, something in Cinderella's brain fires off distantly, those hips _do_ beg for some form of worship by cloth or—

_You are inappropriately staring at your friend, you harlot!_

Cinderella forces her head around and stares resolutely at the wall, fingers twisting in her lap. She is here to look after Aqua and to banish the new darkness clinging to her heart and that's _it_.

She scolds herself lightly as one ear remains tuned to the sounds Aqua makes while drying herself. It's not too long until the sounds of shifting fabric stop, leaving only the ambiance of the settling water. Aqua's weight depresses the mattress when she sits. They're back to back for a good, long time, long enough for the water to stop shifting, to come to a halt and for Cinderella's heart to echo in her own ears. Her cheeks are warm and she knows she has a bit of sweat at her hairline; attraction is not something she is unfamiliar with, of course. The subject and timing, however...

Aqua sucks in a breath. Releases it nervously.

Last time they had been so...compromised. There is no room for doubt that the process will not be the same this time. Cinderella shores up her courage and tells herself that she is Aqua's friend, first and foremost, and that cannot change no matter what...how they end up. Not that anything will happen. Cinderella is married and Aqua has no interest.

She turns and swings her legs onto the bed. Approaches Aqua from behind slowly. Aqua wears a fraying man's tunic to bed, several sizes too big for her. Must have belonged to a cook, with the very, very faint stains lining the sleeves and collar. The neckline, unlaced, is loose enough to slip down as Aqua tenses up at Cinderella's approach. The curve of her bare shoulder is revealed. Cinderella curls up behind her and places two hands against Aqua's bath-warmed back, feels the heat of her skin through the thin cloth.

The stolen pieces of darkness crackle like lightning under her palms. Too close to the surface, too fresh, for Cinderella to feel Aqua's own darkness. Will it find her again, she wonders, and help her to where the hurts are deepest?

“Relax,” Cinderella whispers after a moment. “Please. I won't hurt you.”

“I know,” Aqua murmurs. She holds her tension for a bit longer before she lets her shoulders fall, her head slumping forward. Her hair, thoroughly toweled but still a dark grey from remaining moisture, drips away to bare the nape of her neck. Heat spears through Cinderella's spine and melts in a pit beneath her stomach; Cinderella forces herself to ignore it, and is relieved that Aqua can't see her. Or sense her, apparently, because surely she would bolt if she felt what Cinderella did...

She closes her eyes. Focuses on the darkness beneath her hands and the beat of Aqua's tortured heart. And then she's sinking in deep, leading with light. Almost immediately Aqua's darkness surrounds her like an old friend, shadowing her steps and the spaces between her fingers. It purrs sweetly at her touch, the ringing echo of balance loud enough to make Cinderella's head spin. The heat of it melts further down and she hears both within and without the ragged gasp Aqua takes as she lets it, unafraid.

_This is yours,_ she thinks as the light burns brighter still, contrasting and preserving that darkness, _and it doesn't scare me, doesn't hurt me. This is yours, and I accept it, I accept you, utterly, entirely..._

The light resonates and croons like a tuned instrument. The oil-pitch of today's darkness, a new and foreign creature to the shroud against Cinderella's shoulders, stands no chance against it as Cinderella lowers the torch of her heart and sets it to burn. It shrieks as it dissolves, and this time when Aqua's own shadows guide her to a deep rooted shard, Cinderella does not pull back. This she sets to work on, phantasm fingers prying at the jagged edges and pulling hard. It does not immediately give, and Cinderella grits her teeth in the real world as she hears voices that don't belong to her, to Aqua, to anyone alive any longer.

An argument. Domestic in nature. It's a man's voice. He hates, and hates, and hates so deeply that it consumes him entirely one night. The metallic aftertaste of blood. For just a brief moment Cinderella sees, even behind her closed eyes, the horror-struck expression of his victim; a girl no older than fifteen, with mousefur brown hair and hazel eyes. Blood drips from her lips. There is a knife in his hand. And then the knife clatters and sight is gone in a film of yellow.

Heartless. He'd become one. They both know it. All that remains of his memory and his heart is this wretched shard Aqua had been forced with during her imprisonment. Cinderella works it free from Aqua's heart, and without an anchor, it fizzles into the ether. Does it return to the Realm of Darkness? Does it simply cease to exist? Cinderella does not know.

There is a crack in Aqua's heart from its removal, but the silky texture of her darkness moves to seal it. Light glitters among the gossamer strands of black, perfectly balanced.

_I hated it,_ Aqua's voice resonates in the air, unreal and strangely pitched. The words don't come from her mouth, Cinderella realizes. They come from deep within, stripped with the burn of honesty, raw and open. _When she kissed me, I hated it. I didn't want to be kissed by her. She didn't want to kiss me._

Cinderella's heart pounds quickly, the light spreading into soft, firefly-esque motes. In the sight of her heart, backlit by cerulean blue, she thinks she sees Aqua standing across the room, or the facsimile of the room.

_I'm scared_ , Aqua's heart confesses, so quiet, so small.

“I'm here,” Cinderella rasps, to Aqua and to the phantom that lingers in the corner of the room. Both flinch. With alarm she can sense Aqua starting to pull away, and impulsively—driven by that trembling voice Aqua has hidden from her, the confession of the kiss she didn't want—she dives in.

She throws her heart and its light further, nearly ripping it from her own chest and only instinct stops her from succeeding. Physically, she clings to Aqua's strong shoulders; her lips press against the nape of Aqua's neck. The ghostly, weightless feeling of sinking into water follows her as she desperately floods Aqua's heart with light.

Shards of darkness try to cut her, screaming demons that react to her invasion. Her light and Aqua's darkness work in tandem to shield her completely, and the ghosts vanish away. She can feel arms against her shoulders, holding her tight. Desperately, clinging. In the dark, Aqua's heart sobs against her ear.

“I'm...here,” Cinderella says again, struggling to remember words.

_I'm here, too_ , Aqua tells her. _Don't forget me. Don't forget who I really am_.

Cinderella finds her throat tight with emotion, suspended as close to Aqua's heart as she dares.

With a great heave of effort, Cinderella pulls back just a bit, expels a few more free floating flotsam from the depths of Aqua's heart, and when it's done, allows her light to reel her back into her body. Aqua's darkness, predictably, follows her eagerly until the last possible moment. It strokes fingers over her, makes her shiver and tremble—not out of fear.

Cinderella opens her eyes. Her face is buried in the crook of Aqua's shoulder, Aqua's head lolled back onto her own. Cinderella's left hand is still sliding, with a pulsating glow of magic and free floating motes, out of Aqua's chest as she pieces together how they've shifted during the process; Cinderella finds herself propped on her knees, and Aqua is splayed, vulnerable and soft, against her front, lower back cradled by her lap. They struggle to recover their breath, and Cinderella feels the hour all the harder when the bells begin to toll.

Nearly three. She's so...so very tired.

“On...the bed,” Cinderella says numbly, tugging against Aqua's shoulder. They shuffle to the middle of the bed together, and with a sigh, Aqua simply turns, throwing her heavy arms around Cinderella, pinning her there with just the act itself. Cinderella had brought in a fairly comfortable chair, had fully intended to sit by Aqua's bedside rather than this...

There's no helping it. The minute Cinderella's head hits a familiar pillow, her eyes shut.

When she opens them again, it's to sunshine. The bed is gone; beneath her, ahead of her, stretching to an infinite horizon touched with mist, is water. The ground beneath her is solid like rock, and the dry smell of salt wafts to burn her nose. She's on her side, Cinderella can tell that much. Struggling against an invisible weight hanging like a shroud on her shoulders, she shoves both palms into the water, against the ground. Heaving the top half of her body feels nearly impossible. Water trickles from her dampened hair down her cheek, her neck.

The water reflects the lazily drifting clouds above, the deep blue of the sky. Silence wraps its arms against her throat, until she finally picks out the barest sounds of splashing.

Cinderella turns her head.

Aqua is walking away from her, already a fair distance. She's wearing what she wore when Cinderella first met her; royal blue fabric wrapped around her hips, carrying armor draped against her ankles and clasped to her shoulders. Her hair is wholly blue again.

Cinderella sucks in air. Chokes on the salt she breathes, the taste flooding her mouth. She struggles to her hands and knees, water rippling and disturbing her own watery reflection.

“Ah...” Cinderella chokes out. The meager syllable echoes impossibly loud, but Aqua's steps don't falter in the least. She continues to walk away. Cinderella braces herself and tries to stand against the pressure, the crushing weight. She can only manage to raise upright on her knees, but it's enough to reach out.

“Aq-Aqua,” she tries again. “Aqua, wait!”

Aqua doesn't hear her. She walks ever onward, the ripples from her steps the only  answer to Cinderella's frantic cries. Cinderella tries to crawl, but only manages a few pathetic shuffles before the pressure from above presses her face down into the salty water, burning in her eyes and mouth and down her throat as she plunges forward. The water becomes deeper, the ground vanishing beneath her as she sinks. Light is quick to fade; streams of bubbles flow out of her mouth and nose. There's a soft, forget-me-not blue flash of light, and then Cinderella wakes up in her own bed, covered in a sticky, horrid sweat.

Her mouth is dry, painfully so. She can still smell the salt. Her entire body aches and chills wrack up and down her spine and when she inhales, her nose is congested terribly and she coughs, hard.

“Easy, now,” soothes her husband. He's dressed down for the day, in simple breeches and tunic. He brings a cold, damp cloth to her face and gently washes her skin, cleansing it and wringing it out to lay it over her forehead. “The doctor says you need to rest. Just a light fever, love.”

“How...” She lapses into another fit of coughing that rattles in her lungs and claws her throat raw.

“Rest,” Charming tells her firmly. “Please. You need rest.”

And how can she fight against his kindness? Her husband fusses over her the rest of the day, never drifting too far from her bedside. He helps her to wash off the sweat every hour, to eat, to drink, to relieve herself when her legs fail her in strength. It certainly isn't the first time he's tended to her while she was ill; Cinderella is still unused to it. Part of her feels guilty for being allowed, or forced, to accept it even if she knows it's an irrational point of view. It's okay for the people she loves, and the people who love her, to want to care about her.

Thirteen years of care versus twenty-odd of neglect. Cinderella still isn’t sure who the victor ever is.

Over the course of the day Cinderella lapses in and out of consciousness. Mostly, she sleeps dreamlessly. Sometimes she gets a few vague impressions when she's drifting. Blobs of color, orange and green. The heat of a sun against skin that isn't her own, bronzing muscles that would never fit over her bones, the sparkle-hot-rush of magic spewing from the core of her stomach outwards from her fingertips, channeled through her Keyblade—

_hot hungry claws passing through her flesh, buried deep between her ribs, grazing her heart, walking, endless, crashing waves, darkness darkness_ **_darkness_ **

That's the only way Cinderella knows Aqua is near. Cinderella never sees her, but she _feels_ her, just out of reach, out of sight. Somehow, that hurts worse than the muscle cramps, the fever chills. Her heart _aches_ from the distance.

And as the day progresses, as the day begins to bleed into night, the illness seems to get worse. Her skin itches, as if stretched too tight over her body. Charming arranges for a cold bath to be run, the lines of his face shadowed deeply with worry. He carries her like he did when they were first wed. Cinderella rests her weary, heavy head against his shoulder as they walk. The shadows whisper after them; the moon has risen in the sky. Cinderella doesn't know how she knows it, but she _knows_ it.

“We'll take care of her, Your Majesty,” an attendant says. She sounds a thousand miles away. Cinderella is set on her feet and handed off to her maids, and Charming says something—his words muffled, but she recognizes 'duke' and 'dinner' at least—and she thinks she gives him a distant smile and nod—and then there are old hands against her shoulders, helping her in. The air is muggy and cold, lukewarm.

The maids are kind. They tut and coo as they strip her, guide her into the claw-footed tub. Cinderella feels just the slightest bit humiliated. She hates feeling so weak, so helpless, so—

A thrill spears through her spine, electric and molten. Awareness jolts her in an instant just as Aqua says in her dark, quietly harsh voice, “I'll do it.”

“You're dismissed,” Cinderella says quickly as soon as the words are out of Aqua's mouth, before the silence can settle. “I trust my bodyguard.”

“If...you're certain, Your Highness,” the maid demurs. Her staff gathers themselves and begin to leave, muttering to themselves. Aqua doesn't respond to any of it; Cinderella doesn't care much to pay attention closely to what they say. Perhaps she should, but when the door closes and she hears the soft chimes of magic locking it behind them, Cinderella finds not an iota of sense or care in her.

There's a low, steady pulse in her ears. Phantom sensations linger just out of the edge of her perception. She hears Aqua's calculated, steady steps as much as feel them, feel _her_. And she feels the phantom that chases Aqua, too, in every second footfall.

Vulnerable. _Helpless_.

“I missed you,” Cinderella says, startling Aqua and herself with its honesty.

“I wasn't...” Aqua trails off. “I made you sick.”

“No, you didn't.” She turns in the tub and sniffles. Aqua doesn't have her blindfold on, and the difference is enough to make Cinderella's heart rise into her throat, pounding against her neck. “You think this is the first time I've ever fallen ill from overextending myself? Darling,” she chides, lightly, smiling when Aqua's usually unreadable expression is so brilliantly open, so bright, so _human_ again, “your heart isn't the first I've mended.”

Aqua stammers. “But—”

“ _But_ nothing. I am no child.” Cinderella turns her back to Aqua, chin lifted in the air. The brief surge of energy is beginning to dwindle, and her fever is starting to return, and she still has washing to do even if her limbs feel like sacks of wet sand. She reaches out for the soap and cloth and Aqua's hand catches over her wrist. Sparks fly under her skin at the contact—but there is no seething darkness in Aqua that greets the light beneath Cinderella's.

Just skin. Cinderella gazes at the back of Aqua's hand, her elegant fingers, blunted nails.

“I said,” Aqua breathes just above her, “I'll do it.” Then, she adds in a low rumble, “Your Highness.”

Cinderella's eyes flutter shut, her dry lips parting. She shivers when Aqua releases her wrist, rolls up her sleeves. She feels Aqua's hands cupping water, and a soft chant beneath her breath. Cinderella cracks open an eye and sees the water level drop an inch or two.

“Head back,” Aqua instructs, and when Cinderella follows her instructions Aqua raises an orb of water over her head, and with a squeeze of her hands, a gentle stream pours through her hair. It feels _warmer_ , and Cinderella can't help the sigh of relief that leaves her throat.

Aqua's fingers comb through her hair, working soap into her scalp. More magically warmed water is poured to rinse, and then slick hands knead at the knots of tension in her neck. Cinderella smells sun-warmed flowers before she feels healing magic woven into her, taking away every pain, sinking in deep. Coupled with a muted fire spell, Cinderella recognizes hazily, Aqua's hands roll over her neck, her shoulders.

“Thank you,” Aqua says gently. “You...you saved my heart.”

_So beautiful,_ the Phantom says. Cinderella's eyes snap open as she feels Aqua's fingers tighten against her skin in reaction. Cinderella stares ahead, a shimmering, ghostly visage of Aqua on the opposite side of the tub, leaning on her arms. Her eyes shine a bright, electric blue, the light of them focused solely on Cinderella. She resists the urge to cross her arms over her chest, instead leaning backwards, further into Aqua's hands.

“I would do it again, you know. I'll have to.” Cinderella shrugs lightly. “The Realm of Darkness left its scars.”

Aqua's breath wooshes out. “I can't ask you to do that for me—”

_Don't say no,_ Aqua's Phantom croons, _come back to me. Inside._

“You never need to ask,” Cinderella says in return. “It's my duty as a Princess of Heart to mend what damage the Darkness causes. And, as your _friend_ , I can't bear to see you carry it by yourself anymore.”

She turns in the water, faces the physical Aqua. Her breath catches in her throat from their proximity; scant inches separate them, and this time, with no blindfold, there's no buffer to hide Aqua's eyes. How the pupils dilate, or her lips part. How her eyes slip to Cinderella's mouth.

_Yes,_ the Phantom moans, _closer. I want it. We want it so bad_ —

And Aqua pulls back, inhaling sharply. The Phantom chuckles darkly and fades into the humid air. Cinderella sinks further into the sudsy water and finishes her washing with a flush. Then she stands as Aqua moves to fetch a fresh towel. She manages to dry herself off as the silence flutters around them. She takes one step out of the tub, then the other and she feels her legs turn to mash. Somehow, she's not at all surprised that Aqua is there to catch her.

“Stood up too fast?” Aqua asks softly. Cinderella looks up and _again_ they are close enough to—to—

She closes her eyes. At the crest of a heartbeat running between them, she almost tilts her head, almost leans in, almost lets the breaths mingling between them to stall. But then, Cinderella remembers; remembers the man who stayed at her bedside all day and turns her head. Remembers that Aqua, as beautiful as she is, is still a stranger despite the manifestation of her heart. And it’s enough to have her turn her head slightly away, so that Aqua’s hitched breathing hits her cheek, and nothing more.  

Aqua is very still, propping Cinderella up, before a soft huff leaves her nose and she steadies Cinderella to stand straight. Her back is turned as she hands over the nightgown, and once Cinderella is dressed, hair toweled and fluffed dry with a quick spell, Aqua opens the door in silence and escorts her to the three waiting maids. As Cinderella is taken back to her room, Aqua follows and stops by the threshold of the door.

“Goodnight,” she says, simply, “Your Highness.”


	7. Whispers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the lies that you're making / Your love is mine for the taking / ... / No, you'll never be alone / When darkness comes, I'll light the night with stars / Hear the whispers in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next two chapters are gonna be a little short, so bear with me for a while! It'll be worth it.

It isn't long after that when the king leaves for his war.

Aqua stands behind Cinderella and to the left, ever the watchful shadow, ever the obedient body. The fact that she can be in the sun again, and look upon the Realm of Light without pain is testament to the gift Cinderella has given her. In the months since her escape— _or release,_ the Phantom ponders out loud—Cinderella has swept her light through the ruins of her heart at least twice a week. Nothing as deep as last time, Aqua refuses to allow that, but enough to keep her from relapsing. She still hallucinates Terra at random, but Ventus's ghosts have not shown themselves at all, and while her Phantom remains, it is at least...tolerable.

Which makes it all the more intolerable of how she cannot easily disregard her inappropriate feelings. Cinderella is married. And happy. And her _friend_ . Cinderella puts herself in danger every time she heals Aqua's heart. Master Eraqus raised her so much _better_ than this; he always stressed the importance of discipline. Little wonder the Darkness was able to find the cracks in her heart and steep it so thoroughly, if she nurses a crush on a married woman.

King Charming's farewell is bombastic and fraught with quiet tension. His army is strong, Aqua knows. The allied armies are stronger still. There is always a risk in war, always a chance of death, and Aqua knows very little about the forces collecting against the country. As horrid as it sounds, as it is, as far as it goes against the grain of her training, she can’t find it in herself to care much. Her priority is the woman who governs the kingdom.

So she _cannot_ become obsessed with the softness of her touch. She cannot become attached to the sweetness of her smile. Physical attraction is a nuisance and Aqua will not let it ruin her. Compartmentalize and move on. Duty before distraction.

 _Eraqus's favorite lesson_ , the Phantom scoffs in the background, lounging against the stone railing of the balcony. She's see-through in the light, solid in the shadows. Closer than ever before in Cinderella's range of light. _Didn't help any of us that much, did it?_

Shut up, Aqua thinks quietly, watching the side of Cinderella's face as she looks down at her celebrating people. The parade of the king-led army is a mournful one, full of prayers and well wishes. The families want their men to come home with their lives more than glory. Aqua guesses that giving them the lion's share of it as they leave will remind them to fight hard to come home. What's the point, she wonders. If they don't fall, gutted, on the battlefield, then they'll trudge home with monsters in their minds, skeletons in their memories, darkness in their breath.

Will the baker's wife love her husband still, when he slides into their bed, hands slick with blood and lips spilling lies? Will she tolerate the viciousness in his heart at night when he takes her? Will the seamstress allow her brother to seek shelter in her hovel as he tears his hair out by remembering all the cruelty he had to deal out?

Will Cinderella have to deal with Charming, so changed? Surely thirteen years married to Cinderella, bathed in her light, will have given the king a tolerance for the corrosive stink of war. Aqua hopes so. But she also would not hesitate to swipe his head off of his shoulders if he makes a wrong move.

 _Come back safe,_ the Phantom bids the king lazily as the parade and army begin their march out of the city and into the wildlands. _Come back unchanged. Come back to the light, or don't come back at all_.

Did Cinderella just flinch, then? Aqua studies the queen, and finds only a weary sadness and the signs of worry curving her mouth into a neutral expression. But nothing to suggest that the Phantom can actually speak to Cinderella. Not yet. Not ever. If it comes to that—if Cinderella's kindness exposes her to the worst of what Aqua has inside of her heart—well. Aqua will do what needs to be done.

Aqua always has. Cleaning up her mess, and everyone else's while she's at it. She'll die carrying the burden of duty, if that's what it asks of her.

“Your Highness?” Charming's valet, Grand Duke Leopold, stands at attention. He's some nephew from the anxiety-ridden and frantic gentleman that had been set upon the kingdom with a glass slipper, so Aqua knows. “Terribly sorry, but the council is ready for the first set of business.”

“Yes, of course.” Cinderella takes a deep breath and Aqua watches her shrug off the stress like an unwanted shawl. “We shouldn't keep them waiting! I hear they get into an awfully rancorous mood if they're not mollified.”

“They like to keep to schedule, you understand,” Leopold stammers. He's inherited his uncle's sweaty upper lip, if nothing else.

“Oh, I'm well aware,” Cinderella says warmly, her smile sweet. Her next words, however, are as cutting as any sword; “I've had to eat many of my meals alone because of them.”

The Grand Duke swallows.

“The council's first mistake will be underestimating her,” Aqua tells him as Cinderella brushes out the satin ruffles of her peach and ivory colored gown, sweeping out from the balcony and towards the meeting hall. Aqua doesn't bother to bid farewell to the Grand Duke as she follows Cinderella at a respectful clip, eyes roving the hallways. Her nose and other senses remained unchanged when Cinderella restored her eyesight, which is a blessing as much as it is a curse.

The Phantom acts as a second pair of eyes, too. Terrible, because now Aqua knows she's real in some facet, but as a resource? It would be stupid to deny her.

Gregory, bless him, and a contingent of his choosing asked to stay behind to guard the castle and city proper, so it's him and his fresh faced lad Adam who stand at attention and the doors to the meeting hall, giving Cinderella and Aqua both a salute and opening the door. Inside it smells like dust and the musk of old men sweating off their cologne, potpourri, and the charred flesh-stench of avarice. Aqua's lip curls and she sets her eyes on a sweep of the room of noblemen that call themselves politicians. Three of them are hunched over their scrolls of parchment, muttering beneath their breath. Two stand after a moment, wiping spectacles on silk cloths pulled from their waistcoats.

One has the audacity to be asleep, head propped on his fist.

Aqua crosses her arms behind her back, and aims a nonlethal—but powerful, she'll admit—stream of magic-born wind toward the slumbering old fool, knocking his arm out from under his head and sending him toppling back as the door slams. The curtains flutter violently and those not already stood in respect scramble among themselves to haul ass, spouting lies like apologies— _Oh so sorry, Your Highness,_ and _My humblest apologies, Your Highness, I am but your servant—_ until a silence falls over the room.

“Gentlemen,” Cinderella greets evenly. She shoots Aqua a look out of the corner of her eye, that is ignored as Aqua tries to hide a smirk of her own. She pulls out Cinderella's chair instead, and helps the queen to her seat. Her head snaps as she spots movement from the corner of her eye, seeing one portly fellow beginning to sit down. She locks eyes with him and glares, giving him a fraction of her simmering frustration.

His spine straightens back up immediately.

“Please, do be seated,” Cinderella adds with a smile. Aqua stands to her right as the council seats themselves, nervously glancing at Aqua. “My personal guard, of course, is upheld to the highest order of discretion. In these troubling times, I've asked her not to part from my side unless absolutely necessary. You understand.”

“Oh, absolutely, Your Highness,” says the man who had been asleep, some noble from the western farmland provinces. “One can never be too careful.”

“No,” Aqua says, startling the council, “one can't.” And she returns to her 'at rest' position.


	8. Violet Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I took my love down to violet hill / There we sat in snow / All the time she was silent and still / So if you love me / Won't you let me know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Extremely minor coping behaviors that could be read as self harm. No blood is drawn, but there is some minor skin picking.

“The...first order of business today, of course, is to discuss finances for the kingdom.” A nobleman in a powdered wig and a high collared coat shuffles his papers in front of him. “We shall, of course, need to divert a fair amount of crop and supplies to the front lines, meaning that in terms of exports, well, there won't be much of that. And of course if we are to continue importing from King Damask's kingdom—”

“And what, may I ask, are we importing?” Cinderella asks calmly.

“Rarities and thick furs from the far north, Your Highness.” He speaks as if talking to a child, and Aqua catches the once-slumbering lord hiding an oiled smirk into his gloved fist.

“Interesting.” Cinderella's pleasant smile never leaves her face. “I admit, perhaps it's due to being a bit of a shut-in, recently, but I haven't seen these furs out and about among our people. I've seen the trade furs from the forests. Bears, deer. What of the rarities?”

“G...gemstones. Mostly. Glassware.”

“So nothing the people working in your fields, selling your wheat, your cattle, would die without.”

Aqua doesn't bother hiding  _ her _ oiled smirk.

“Lord Gerrit,” Cinderella prods gently, “I believe I asked you a question?”

“No, Your Highness,” Gerrit manages through his teeth, face beetroot red. “The imports from the north tend to be...luxuries. But, may I implore you to think of the quality of life—”

“Of the people within my kingdom? Oh, I am, gentlemen, I assure you. You forget, I spent more than half my life among those same people. I know what you all withhold and what you don't, when there are times of scarcity.”

Silence closes around their throats like tangible fists. The Phantom purrs dark approval in a chuckle that only Aqua can hear.

“You thought I would be a naive noblewoman—clutching at her pearls and imploring you to make sure I'd have my sweetmeats and my pastries and my furs.” Cinderella does not pose this as a question. “I suppose you were hoping I'd simply say yes to every proposal you offered while my husband was away? Fighting for his life  _ and yours _ , may I add.”

There is guilty shuffling. Then, the western lord opens his mouth and says around a finely groomed and drool-spattered beard, “With  _ all _ due respect, Your Highness, we on the council are simply making sure the  _ kingdom _ and those within get the  _ proper _ amount of resources according to their station.”

“This council was made to advise the Royal family and provide adequate information in regards to those of our kingdom we cannot personally see to. It was made in trust that you had the common man in mind.” Cinderella leans back in her chair, regal. The arch of her neck makes Aqua's blood sing red-hot against her will. “Unless you have a genuine emergency with your lands, I think we're done here. Leave your proposals. I'll be sure to give them my undivided attention.”

“Your—Your  _ Highness _ , that is simply not how any of this is done!” Gerrit shoots to his feet, slams his hand on the table.

Before the oak table even has the chance to stop rattling, Aqua has the teeth of Master Defender at his throat. Fury boils her blood to bubbling tar, the Phantom hovering at his back with blazing eyes, and for the first time, Aqua feels in  _ synch _ with her.

“Sit,” she starts, soft, “Back. Down.”

His face leeches of all blood and his lips part for his shuddering breaths. They rattle in his lungs like his ribs have snapped and made a new home. The stink of his fear is sour like spoiled milk, ripe like fermenting fruit. Slowly, guided by her weapon, he sits back down. Aqua lets it rest there for a moment more before dismissing the Keyblade, backing to her place.

“Your proposals.” Cinderella's voice is as soft as silk. “Leave them. You're dismissed.”

They flee, leaving their scrolls behind. No one is brave enough to even throw Cinderella a venomous look, not when they have to drift close to Aqua to even attempt to do so. When the room is empty, Cinderella sags into her chair with an exhausted sigh.

“Would you call for an inkwell and a quill?” Cinderella moves to the stack of parchment on her left, dragging it over. “And my spectacles. Maybe tea in a bit. I think we'll be here for a while.”

Aqua pokes her head out and lets Gregory know what Cinderella needs. After a brief five minute pause, she's carrying the requested items to Cinderella and setting them down in front of her. Cinderella puts on the glasses first, propping her chin against her fingers, and pinching the parchment to scan it. Aqua leans her hip against the table, absorbing the look of her in silence.

There's lines by her eyes, and a sharpness to her cheeks. Her fingers are slender, but calloused, and there are long faded scars from a lifetime of housework. Brows lightly furrowed as she reads, Cinderella looks well-matured and growing into her age with grace and beauty. No greying hairs, not yet. She thinks of how well Cinderella swept through the meeting, dismissing useless old fools who were ready to feast on the vulnerable people of the land, and how Cinderella stands in between them. The back of her neck prickles with heat and Aqua suppresses the urge to pull at her collar a sudden rush of humid sweat.

Cinderella sets the parchment down and clicks her tongue. “As I thought. They want to hoard their wealth.”

Aqua snorts. “Typical.”

“Lord Hershel's suggesting another tariff on the imports of food over the coming months. He knows the effect won't solidify until the winter months, meaning that his people better pay up or they'll starve.” Cinderella crosses the entire page out with a sloppy swipe of her quill, flicking her wrist to set it aside. “And a tariff on tea, as well, how surprising. Not his favorite blend especially bought and shipped from the next kingdom over, though. He's either an idiot, or he thinks  _ I'm _ an idiot.”

And they both know what he thinks. It raises Aqua's hackles but she merely snorts in disgust as she slides Gerrit's stack of policy reforms over in Cinderella's direction. It takes a little longer for her to read through before she scoffs in disgust.

“Higher taxes. On those who don't own their own property. I bet that will make the farmers he rents his lands to very happy.” She crosses out some parts, circling others.

“You know quite a lot,” Aqua says.

“Charming offered his library for my perusal. I doubt he expected me to get much use out of it.” Cinderella runs the tuft of the quill under her jaw, humming thoughtfully as she moves to the next page in the pile, tapping against the margin. “I don't think he knew I was literate.”

“I take it it's not exactly the most—erm. Popular state of education, for this world.”

“Not for women, at least. My f—” Cinderella closes her eyes. “My father taught me how. Before he passed.”

“I suppose mine did too,” Aqua offers, seeing the struck nerve and yearning to soothe it despite her training.

“You don't remember?” Cinderella asks her gently.

“Before I...was taken in by my master,” Aqua begins, looking down to her shoes and feeling the shame burning up her spine, “my world was swallowed by Darkness. I didn't quite realize it growing up, because M-Master Eraqus hadn't taught us about Heartless and what they do, but I can remember flashes of it happening. I think my father was raising me by himself. Then he was gone too, and I woke up on a beach with Master Eraqus picking me up.”

It feels...freeing, to get that weight off of her chest. To share a—well, it's not a happy memory, but it's not completely miserable.

“I don't remember my mother either,” Cinderella confesses. She's set her quill aside. “I think she might have passed giving birth to me. Sometimes, I—” She shakes her head. “Nevermind.”

“No, no, I—” Aqua swallows. “Tell me.”

“Sometimes...I feel that, maybe, my father left me as a punishment.”

“Left you...”

“I had an aunt and uncle. Not in this country, no, but my father wasn't poor.” Cinderella leans back in her chair. “He could have sent me to them before he died. Once he fell ill. But I know better now; Tremaine had fooled him. He thought I would be safe with her.”

“It's little comfort, though,” Aqua murmurs under her breath, bitterness clinging to the last word.

Aqua thinks about Eraqus, and his teachings. Even if he had clearly favored Terra over her, Aqua remembers how he had bandaged her sprained ankles, how he'd carried her on his back after training. And she remembers how deeply his death had carved itself into her heart, mourning the figure of her father, and the bitterness of being saddled with his legacy while in the Realm of Darkness, carrying his Keyblade and his burdens alike.

“He was supposed to protect you,” Aqua finally says.

“He was,” Cinderella agrees. “I can't hold it against him, though. He was a sad, sick, lonely man by the end.” They lapse into silence together, and Cinderella picks up her quill again. Aqua feels her stomach turn, and she can't tell why, and the turning gets worse as Cinderella continues to work. She gets through two more stacks of parchment before Aqua summons the scraps of her courage.

“The only fault was with her,” Aqua says quickly. “Tremaine.”

“I know.” Cinderella gives her a tender smile, sad at the edges but somehow more beautiful for it.

“Her daughters had their own issues. But the darkness was always with Tremaine. They didn't deserve the fate their mother forced them into. And you all deserved to grow away from her.”

Cinderella stares at her, mouth parted. The Phantom curls her personal space, laying her head in Cinderella's lap, nuzzling against her knee. She's faded half into the furniture, only a specter in the Realm of Light.

_ They were cruel, _ the Phantom whispers, eyes closed,  _ but they didn't deserve to die. They deserved to live, to grow, like anyone else. And you deserved to hear them say 'I'm sorry.' _

“You mean that,” Cinderella says finally, her voice choked. “You actually mean that.”

Aqua shuffles in place and looks away. Her cheeks feel warm. The display of human compassion shouldn't move Cinderella so much. It shouldn't have taken months after their reunion for Aqua to show it. Her skin crawls. She remembers being so much better than this.

Oh, well. Compartmentalize and move on.

“I do,” Aqua says after a moment.

“Then thank you. Truly. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” Cinderella looks down shyly. Her hands move into her lap, smoothing out her skirts—accidentally petting over the Phantom's hair in the process. The Phantom sighs in bliss; Aqua feels a ghostly sensation passing over her own scalp and shivers while Cinderella's eyes are cast downward.

“I'll call for tea,” she mutters.

They spend the rest of the day in the meeting hall. By the time the sun's beginning to set Cinderella has a thin stack of manageable proposals—if two sheets of parchment can be considered a stack—and a heftier pile of rejections. They take dinner in the parlor together, but separate baths, and at night Aqua carries over the king's chair from his study and sets it by the bedside. She shrugs off her coat and vest, unbuttoning the top two catches of her shirt to take advantage of the cooler air in Cinderella’s chambers. She takes her seat with a sigh, crossing her legs at the knee. 

“And just  _ what _ ,” Cinderella begins after a moment’s pause, her voice a tiny squeak, “are you doing?”

“...Sitting by your bed? Only until you're asleep,” Aqua says upon noticing Cinderella’s subtle stink eye. “Then I'll move to patrol the perimeter.”

“I suspect you won't be getting any sleep at all, if you're planning on all that,” Cinderella scolds.

“I need less than—” Aqua stops short. She's still not...entirely recovered. Parts of herself are changed forever, she knows; her eyes, her senses. Needing less sleep seems like the next logical step, but to what, Aqua is afraid to think about it. “Just...sleep. I'll be okay. Making sure that you're safe will help me rest later.”

“You'd better,” Cinderella mutters under her breath, settling into her covers. Her loose, strawberry blonde hair is burnished auburn in the candlelight. “Well. If you're going to sit there, you may as well tell me a story.”

“A story?” Aqua laughs softly. “Alright. I'll see what I can do.” She racks her brain and finds that she has few stories to share that aren't related to her training, or her boys, or her struggles in general. It makes her stomach start to squirm again, and she hums to try to stave it off. “Well...I could tell you about the time I fought a dragon.”

Cinderella's eyes snap open wide. “You fought a  _ what? _ ”

Aqua tells her about Maleficent and her defeat, about cutting through thorns and the power of true love. It sounds so much like a fairytale that Aqua wonders how she'd ever been young and stupid enough to believe in it, but then remembers that Cinderella's own story is much like a fairytale. Finding love at the end of a shoe versus waking up from a magical kiss—what's the difference?

She talks about witnessing the awakening of Snow White, too. Granted, she has far less material to work with, in that regard, and she avoids the magic mirror talk entirely—the Phantom, curled up by the window, sends her baleful and angry scowls in response—but Cinderella takes the tales like a duckling to water. Shimmering blue with wonder, hands clasped against her stomach like a child; it's almost adorable, if it weren't tempered with the reminder that Cinderella had been robbed of bedside fairytales.

“I never knew you saved Snow White and Aurora too.” Cinderella looks thoughtful for a moment. There's a strange expression on her face before it's gone. “They never mentioned you.”

“I don't think I met them on a personal basis. Mostly they were being swept away by their princes; I just spoke to their guardians. Dwarves and fairies.” Aqua squints at her a little. “You  _ spoke _ with them?”

“Well, yes.” Cinderella’s eyes grow a touch distant, her expression falling. Her pupils swell and she starts to pick at one cuticle, a habit Aqua’s noticed Cinderella falling into when thinking about something terrible from her past.

It’s a significant enough pause to make Aqua start to worry, before Cinderella finds her voice again. “Maleficent captured us all once.” 

The knowledge chills Aqua to the heart, a cold stone clanging down her throat to settle like lead in her stomach. 

“Once we were...allowed to awaken, we didn't have worlds to go home to, save for Jasmine and Alice. It's very strange. I'd never met any of them before, but my heart knew them as a...part of me. If that makes sense,” Cinderella nearly stammers, half laughing. Her elegant fingers tremble against each other as she moves onto the next finger, worrying the skin around her nails red.

“It does,” Aqua says quietly, guilt stinging in each word. “I'm...sorry. I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories—”

“It was frightening, yes, but I wouldn't say...that they're bad, necessarily. I did meet my sisters of the heart, and we were able to do our part to restore our homes, small as it was.” The picking is calmed, and Cinderella lays out her hands against her covered stomach with a sigh, consciously stopping herself. “No, no...I hold that close to me, indeed. I'm just...surprised. I had no idea that you had been—been helping, all those years ago. Which makes me wonder why you—when you escaped,” Cinderella bites her lip, “why you chose to come here?”

_ It wasn't a choice, _ the Phantom corrects, uselessly.  _ You were the light and I followed you. I'd follow you anywhere. _

“I can't say,” Aqua says quietly, aiming a glare at the window. “Fate or instinct, I suppose. I'd rather not look at it too deeply.”

“Of course,” Cinderella says. Her eyes dart to the window and linger, then she leans over and blows out her candle. The moonlight renders everything to a dreamy, hazy world of shadows, interrupted with bleached-bone highlights. Cinderella snuggles into her pillows, murmurs a quiet goodnight, and appears to drift off.

Aqua waits for about an hour or so, until Cinderella's breaths peter out and she smells of true sleep, before she leaves the room. She casts a thick barrier over the window and locks the door behind her before leaning against it, hand clasped tight over her chest.

Aqua has grown used to the weak responses of her heart. It beats, it feels, it does all it's meant to do—but it rarely stirs. Now it stirs, slowly, like a stubborn flower in the frostbitten fields after winter. Aqua should relish it—this sign of her own light, reviving, for the first time!—but then she remembers. She remembers that she is less than human now, that the Darkness has changed her irrevocably, that there is a ring on Cinderella's finger and a vow in Cinderella's heart. That her husband has just left for war.

_ It's not that bad _ , the Phantom tries, materializing next to her from the door. She looks like all the things Aqua used to be, the person Aqua wishes she still was.  _ You can embrace me, _ the Phantom whispers.  _ You can take me back. _

How would her father—Eraqus, or the man that died for her on a dusty old rock lost to time—feel about her now? Lusting for a married woman and arguing with a ghost her heart created? 

Disgusted. Eraqus would have put her down like a dog a long time ago. The Phantom hisses wordlessly as the thought passes in Aqua's mind and vanishes, and Aqua curls her hands into fists and clips down the hall to her own room.

The stirring of her heart fades. And she's just fine with that.


	9. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's in control? / Losing control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Eye trauma, body horror, paranoia.

Cinderella opens her eyes to sunlight and the smell of salt. The dream starts the same as it has for months now. She braces her hands under herself and pushes up, finding no pressure crushing down on her this time. She heaves up to her knees, then to her feet, already scrambling in Aqua's direction.

Aqua always seems to start halfway to the horizon, her stride unhurried. Cinderella takes off at a run, her soaked frock and hair whipping in the misted air. She pants and draws saltwater spray over her tongue; her eyes sting. Somehow, no matter how fast she runs, she can never get close enough to Aqua to stop her.

It's like as Aqua walks away, she never seems to hear Cinderella.

“Aqua!” Cinderella screams this time. “Please! Don't go!”

Go where? Cinderella doesn't know. She never knows.

And then, Aqua stops. For the first time ever, Aqua stops and turns around. She's not close enough to touch, by far, but Cinderella can see her expression; haunted and terrified. Aqua holds out her cupped hands as Cinderella charges through the thin water, kicking up foam. Some sort of charm, made of blue glass and shaped like a star, sits cradled in Aqua's palm. Cinderella reaches out for her hands, and almost touches them.

But Aqua drops into the water, like the ground vanishes beneath her and only her. There's no splash, no wave, no dramatic roar of the sea; she's there one minute, gone the next. Cinderella stumbles, falls to her knees with a sob and, horrified, gazes into the sable pitch of the dark. Aqua's charm floats by her face as she presses against this water-drenched glass, this nebulous window. Her palms falling with Cinderella's, they meet eyes and Cinderella watches her lips move. Bubbles of oxygen fall from Aqua's lips, and as the blue light of the charm sinks down into the dark, Aqua slowly follows.

The light doesn't last long. Aqua vanishes from sight, the little blue light of her charm winking smaller and smaller until it too fades. And then the water ripples, bubbles, and a wave of it churns from below and raises Cinderella up and out. It's bright and hot, sending her spinning into the air. She opens her mouth to scream, chokes on salt, and lands on her back  _ hard _ . The water trickles away, and Cinderella forces herself to turn on her side, gagging. When she lifts her head, the sky has gone dark. The light comes from below, a soft silver gleam. Some kind of platform?

Cinderella struggles to her feet. She's standing on the pumpkin carriage. Or a stained glass design of it, at the least. The platform has her own picture on it, too, her eyes closed peacefully as she poses in front of the castle stairs in her old ball gown. Blocks of stained glass lead off into the distance as steps, tapering toward other pillars.

Her heart knows this place. How could it not? She's been here before, when the other princesses were lost in their slumber at Maleficent's castle. Cinderella gazes down at her own slumbering face as she starts to pace toward a set of stairs. The ball was years ago, and yet, her heart still pictures this same scene, the same people, the same designs. Is she held in stasis? Can her heart grow beyond that one, single, pivotal moment?

She thinks of her dream—of Aqua sinking—and she takes off to the steps at a run. Cinderella knows she won't fall off, or slip. There is no danger for her, here, not inside of her own heart. Her steps against glass echo into the void as she slowly spirals down. A humid, tropic breeze flows over her and dries her dress and hair in an instant, and tells her which princess's heart she's visiting.

Soft pinks, warm yellows, and the distant fragrance of crushed flowers and coconut. Kairi's heart shimmers under Cinderella's feet. Cinderella had never seen into the child’s heart before, but she has a feeling Kairi had only ever had her own image upon the mystical station. Thus, what Cinderella sees is dramatic and oh-so-telling.

(Telling, that the heart’s shape can change and drastically so. It’s just that Cinderella’s hasn’t. And that says much about her, doesn’t it?)

Kairi's picture on the station is, of course, slumbering, short red hair a halo and pink dress blending neatly with the sunset background; her hand grasps that of a young woman in a white gown and flaxen blonde hair. The self same pair are sat in the middle of the station proper, perched on top of the image of their intertwined hands. Kairi is kneeling and the blonde stranger lays soundly asleep still, her head resting on Kairi's legs.

“Hey, Cindy,” Kairi greets cheerfully. It's a nickname that Cinderella isn't sure she cares much for, herself, but it's far too late to discourage Kairi from using it. “Are you okay?”

“I...” Cinderella trails off, her voice hoarse. Will she ever be able to forget the taste of salt water? “Who is that?”

“Her name is Naminé.” Kairi's tone is gentle. Her fingers comb through pale yellow hair, palm resting against a cheek. Naminé does not stir. “It's a bit of a long story, but her heart's resting inside of mine. Everyone else thinks that she went away, and I think she thought she vanished too, but—” Kairi gives the sleeping girl in her lap such a soft look that Cinderella has to look away for a moment, flustered, “—I'm trying not to let her. Hard, though. Her self-confidence isn’t the best.”

Kairi looks up after a moment. “Anyway—sorry, for rambling. Training with Lea and Merlin's starting to drive me a little nuts. What do you need?”

“I...I met someone recently. An old friend.” Cinderella isn't sure how much to say. “But her heart has been...it's been hurt so terribly, Kairi. She carries her own darkness and others’. She won't let me close enough to heal it and my husband went to  _ war _ and I have no idea what's going on anymore and I keep,” she hiccups, “having these dreams were she  _ dies. _ ”

“Sit down, sit down,” Kairi urges, and when Cinderella goes to her knees, stifling a sob into her palm, Kairi's arm goes around her shoulders in a hug. It's comforting, and warm. A third, unbiased party to the slow annihilation of her routine-led life. To Kairi alone she confesses her doubts of her station; her concern in her marriage, the dwindling passion and love for the man she promised her life to, the guilt of admitting it, her fear for Aqua. Kairi holds her shoulders and lets her speak without judgment.

“I'm sorry,” is what she says. “It sounds like you're going through a hell of a lot.”

Cinderella's eyes trail to the side.

“I can't be the one to tell you what to do about Charming,” Kairi says. “It's not my place to. All I can say is that you should follow your heart, and not your duty. If you're not  _ in _ love with him, anymore, then I don't think you have to stay in a relationship.”

For a second, looking over the smaller images of the people in Kairi's life—Sora, Riku, of course, a man with a mane of spiked red hair slicked back, and a young man with a riot of blonde hair swept to the side—she almost misses one. Almost, because the circle is tucked close to the setting sun on Kairi's station. But Aqua's face, lovely, is impossible to miss.

“You might have to leave soon anyway,” Kairi continues. Her eyes have gone soft, the seasalt sweet air carrying a sour hint of something haunting, something unwelcome. The hand petting over Naminé’s hair stops. In the stillness of that, Cinderella sees that Kairi’s knuckles are bruised to the bone, the skin peeling and raw. 

“Leave?” Cinderella prods gently, seeing that Kairi is a two-step dance away from forgetting the train of her thoughts entirely. 

“Things aren’t great,” Kairi croaks. She licks her lips and starts to pet Naminé’s hair again, a definite shake to her hand that hadn’t been there before. “So here’s the deal. We’re at war.”

Exhaustion settles like a mantle of metal against Cinderella’s shoulders, sinking against meat and bones. She’s asleep and this is all a mixture of a dream and a mystical connection, but there is no rest to be found in this place.

“Of course,” she mutters to herself, then to Kairi, “what are we up against? Or—just you, I suppose. It sounds like Keyblade wielder business.”

“His name is Xehanort.” The cold, quiet whisper of Kairi’s voice chills Cinderella’s heart, hoarfrost curling spirals on its surface. “He wants to make the χ-blade. It’s a, um. Fuck. Made up of seven lights and thirteen pieces of darkness—”

“Seven lights.” Cinderella’s throat grows tight and terror sends the ice in her heart deeper, the core of it seizing up with the cold. “W-we’re a weapon.”

“That’s the plan,” Kairi tries for levity, but it falls flat to the fearful, hollow look in her face. “He’s pretty much got us all in his shitty game of shitty chess, and it’s been goin’ for years, Cindy. Have you ever felt it? This...this  _ piece _ of something bigger, something greater than you, deep inside. Wanting so  _ much _ to be complete…”

Kairi’s voice grows whisper thin by the end, her eyes far away in memory. She snaps herself out of it with a shake of the head, swallowing hard.

“Xehanort. His uh—his darknesses, calls them his Seekers. He rips off parts of his own heart, and just...shoves it in them. His darkness, in them. It’s like a virus, like a disease, eats them up from the inside out. It’s  _ sick _ .”

Cinderella’s breath rattles in her chest when she inhales. She’s surprised that her exhale doesn’t fog out and spell out her fears and guilt. Her brain buzzes, suspicion like a gargoyle crouching, stonelike, its talons sinking deep into her spine.  _ I knew it _ , she thinks, oddly enough. 

“What, mm.” Cinderella forces herself to move past the lump in her throat. “What is a, ah, a Seeker? Exactly? What do they look like?”

It’s the wrong—and right—question to ask. Kairi’s trembling intensifies, the shaking crawling up her arm to settle in her shoulders. She reaches up with her free hand and scrubs at her mouth. The hand at Naminé’s hair leaves entirely. Kairi, who has always burned bright and big like a sun at its zenith, looks her age at last. A girl of sixteen years, pulling apart from the fear of her own destiny. Cinderella watches her confidence shake and rattle like old bones, until Kairi gathers herself, and pulls her hands to her chest. 

“The first thing that goes is the eyes,” Kairi says. “They turn gold.”

Cinderella has to look away from Kairi at that, feels like she’s been slapped. She rubs the heel of her hand against her sternum, like the friction of skin against skin can melt the spreading tundra inside of her chest. Her eyes skip and slide along the pictures on Kairi’s platform again, seeking answers and comfort; Sora, and Riku there, they give her courage. Then there’s the ones she doesn’t quite know; that young man with sideswept hair who—who looks a lot like Ventus, come to think of it, but that’s impossible, Aqua said he was  _ gone _ —

_ What else has she lied about? _

And—and then there’s Aqua’s picture. Nearly hidden behind the silhouette of a palm tree. Her smile frozen, as Kairi must remember her; warm and kind. Nothing at all like the brooding, angry, bitter stranger-friend that haunts Cinderella’s dreams, that guards Cinderella’s sleep, that brutalizes Cinderella’s enemies with delight. 

“Gold eyes,” Kairi continues, “and silver hair. It’s like they start to...to change  _ into _ him. Like his darkness is molding their own, twisting their bodies, it’s like nothing I’ve ever,  _ ever _ felt, ever seen. And they’ll—oh, Cindy, they’ll use whatever they can to get to your heart.”

_ I knew it.  _

The thing about ice, in Cinderella’s experience, is that it floats on the surface of the true danger, and is only ever so thick. It splinters with enough force and reveals the frigid waters below. To fall in is to spell doom; how many children has Cinderella seen buried in the winter when they misjudge their safety on a frozen lake? It’s never the ice that kills them, not really. 

How relevant this all is.

After all.  _ Aqua,  _ as a name, means water. 

A warm rain begins to fall, and every minor drop seems to melt away the station. Naminé fades away into motes of light as the spray rolls over Kairi and Cinderella. The dream, for Kairi, is coming to an end. There’s still a nightmare for Cinderella waiting. 

_ What can I do? _ Cinderella thinks desperately.  _ What can I do? _

“Stay safe,” Kairi calls as the station melts away and she’s swallowed by light. “Just—stay safe, Cinderella.  _ Please _ .” 

Cinderella drifts down, no solid ground beneath her feet. The water closes over her head, the ambiance of the eldritch deep echoing in her ears as it drags her down, down, down. She’s too numb to be afraid. How stupid was she, to not tell Kairi about Aqua. How stupid to trust Aqua to begin with. 

She feels hands sliding down her arms, palms blooming beneath Cinderella’s and cold fingers dripping between the spaces of her own. A smile tucked against the space behind her ear, as Cinderella tumbles through the winter ice, and into the frostburn abyss of her naivete. 

“ _ How I long, _ ” Aqua whispers into the dark, her voice sultry and the coil of her words sharp and wicked, “ _ to burn in you. _ ”

*

 

Cinderella’s eyes open as Aqua’s quiet words drag against the back of her neck. She shoots up in her bed, sheets sticking to her skin as she forces the panic, the hurt, down. Her eyes roam the gloomy, early morning grey of her chambers.

She’s alone. For now. Cinderella throws back her covers and nearly rips through her nightgown in her haste to get the fabric off of her shoulders. Everything itches; she feels raw, unclean. Even when Cinderella ducks behind her partition, cleans the film of cold sweat off of her skin and dresses for the day, the discomfort persists. 

It feels like someone’s got her heart in their fist.

But she forces herself to remain calm. She ties back her hair and cleans her teeth and does her own makeup, trying to settle her thoughts into a semblance of order. There’s not much she can do, not right now. 

(Where Aqua is, Cinderella doesn’t know. And that scares her the most. If she’s searching out the Keyhole, finds it sealed shut—will Aqua be able to  _ unseal it? _ Is her goal to rip out Cinderella’s heart, plunge her world back into the Darkness? Oh, God.)

Somewhere in between her harried rituals, Cinderella’s eyes catch on the seat cocked by her bedside. The book Aqua was reading the night before sits on the cushion, innocently enough. They’d just gone through Charming’s library together the day before, Cinderella remembers faintly. Giggling over titles, running fingers over goldleaf spines and smirking at fairytales. 

_ When you’ve fought a dragon, _ she remembers Aqua saying in her soft, humble way,  _ somehow, the stories seem a little...less fantastical. _

(And Aqua had grinned at her—so small, so slight—that Cinderella had been robbed of her breath. Because when Aqua had smiled, then, a real one without any past horror or her traumas chaining it down, she had been beautiful.)

Now Cinderella throws the book back onto the chair, disgusted with herself. Maybe the fall of her world had been her fault, after all. Maybe all it takes is a pretty face to fool her. She’s distracted from her frustration by a quick knock at the door; before she can tell her visitor to go away, Aqua lets herself in. 

And damn her.  _ Damn her _ . She’s brought a cart with tea and fruits for breakfast, humming beneath her breath. Aqua doesn’t even seem to notice Cinderella clutching at her turning stomach. There’s a hint of a smile on Aqua’s lips that only widens when she looks up and sees Cinderella. 

“You’re awake,” Aqua says, shutting the door behind her. “Good morning.” 

Cinderella says nothing. And Aqua doesn’t seem to notice that, pushing the tea cart against the wall with a low hum and brushing her hands together.

It seems impossible that the gold of Aqua's eyes—strange but beautiful, in their own way—hide a monster behind them. Especially when the Phantom speaks the truth of Aqua's heart more than Aqua ever can. But Cinderella would be a fool to disregard Kairi's warnings, considering Kairi is a Keyblade wielder in her own right, and is training to fight the man known as Xehanort. The revelations are on loop in her mind.

The χ-blade. It's existed before her. What does that mean? Has her heart, her  _ entirety _ , been crafted to suit the needs of those who yearn for war? She turns from Aqua, doesn't allow her to see the fear racing hard and fast in her veins. She cups a hand over her mouth and tries, very hard, not to think about how familiar it sounds.

Because the χ-blade would not be the first time Cinderella's heart had been forged into steel. She remembers Maleficent and Ansem and the Keyblade of Heart. She remembers being torn from her own body, her consciousness shoved into the deepest dark, pinned down. Trapped in the cold night once the Final Keyhole had been forced open, sharpened.

Cinderella remembers Snow White's desperate humming to try and calm Alice. Jasmine's rebellious fury and Belle's whirlwind mind. Aurora's deepest sleep, her true consciousness almost lost within herself. She remembers being forced into Maleficent's horrible heart, opening the dark Fae up to the very pits of her own evil, the burn of fire.

Cinderella remembers hurting Sora, cleaving into him by his own hand, and Kairi's heart awake enough to feel like she was being pierced too.

And now, to know that becoming another weapon, another instrument of destruction is her destiny—or the destiny a madman wants from her, or those that would  _ guard _ her? It's maddening. No one in this entire world knows what lengths Maleficent went through to kidnap her just to shove her heart into a key, the death and destruction she wrought. To think that this could happen again?  _ Again _ ?

She feels sick. The blood drains from her face as panic starts to set in. She looks at Aqua's face, remembers the overwhelming darkness  _ that doesn't belong to Aqua at all _ , the cancerous shards locked in place, the brutality lingering under the surface. Knows that there's some of Tremaine in there too; Aqua took that darkness into herself. Fed off it.  _ Uses it. _

_ They’ll use whatever they can to get to your heart. _

“What's the name Xehanort mean to you?” Cinderella blurts.

Aqua's entire body shifts. She looks furious. Angry enough to kill. The Phantom holds her own arms and wails softly, rapidly shaking her head, whispering,  _ Don't ask about him, why would you, how did you _ —

“I don't see how that's relevant right now, Cinderella.” Aqua's voice shivers and crackles with frost. “Where did you hear that?”

Terrified fury wells up in Cinderella as well. “Don't treat me like an idiot, Aqua. Who is Xehanort? What did he do to you?”

“I don't want to talk about it!” Aqua snaps, eyes alight.

“ _ I'm not giving you a choice! _ ” Cinderella feels sick to shout at Aqua, who is so clearly scared on her own, tormented by memories—but what if they're memories of Xehanort making her into a Seeker? Cinderella pants hard as she searches Aqua's face, desperate to find the answer that will calm this storm inside of her mind, the buzz between her ears.

Aqua stares at her, her snarl fading away bit by bit as the silence continues between them. Now she looks worried, concern flashing in her eyes. The Phantom looks up from her own whimpering;  _ She's scared _ , the Phantom says, turning her head towards Aqua.  _ Something's scaring her. Do something about it! _

Do something? Cinderella feels her stomach drop, cold sweat slick on her neck and face.  _ Do something? _ What does that mean?

“Cinderella,” Aqua tries softly, “Where did you hear that name?” She sounds so gentle, so kind, so plying. “You have to tell me.”

_ Why won't Aqua answer her? _ Why is she dragging it out? Cinderella remembers how Maleficent was able to sneak into the castle, to the Keyhole, with her honey words and trickery. It’s all the same, every time her life has been ruined it’s been the  _ same _ . Tremaine at her father’s funeral, a sharp nailed hand resting on Cinderella’s thin shoulder— _ Come, now, Ella _ ; Maleficent and the shadows creeping from beneath her dress, Charming’s slackened body on the carpet— _ Come, now, Your Highness _ . 

Now, Aqua—or what calls itself Aqua. Playing at compassion and hiding daggers in her words. Cinderella has  _ been through this before _ so she  _ knows _ the signs, she knows how it plays out. How could she not?  _ Fool that I am, _ Cinderella thinks in despair,  _ to ignore the danger right in front of me _ . She starts to tremble in place, her breaths coming in a fast rasp; Aqua's brows draw together when she notices.

“Cinderella—”

Aqua steps forward too fast, reaches out with a hand.

Cinderella flinches back, draws up her light, and for the first time, uses it against Aqua. It’s a snap decision, her heart reacting only on the animal instinct of fear; Cinderella has crafted barriers before, has healed and mended, these are second nature. The barrier she throws up is more...jagged, say, than ones she’s ever made. 

This has teeth, sharp and vicious. The palms of Cinderella’s sing with unnatural heat, like she’s just grazed an overworked oven, a sharp note of discomfort that fades quick. She will not be able to say the same for Aqua. 

The barrier catches Aqua unguarded. The Light spears into her; Cinderella can feel it pouring into the Darkness of Aqua’s heart, fast as molten iron. Aqua wails in horrified pain, and Cinderella watches as the force of her defense lifts Aqua right off her feet, hitting the high wall before gravity takes over.

Aqua's body crashes against the tea cart from the morning together, smashing through wood and porcelain and glass. Lightning crashes just outside as the drama unfolds, rolling thunder muffling the sound of the carnage. When it fades, the silence lays over them like a funeral shroud, broken only by their panting. Cinderella's, panicked; Aqua's, laboured and shaken with whimpers. 

There is an uneasy feeling inside of Cinderella’s gut as she looks down her arm, at Aqua in the mess. Sickness curls like a hedgehog beneath her collarbones, sharp spines sticking in her throat. Her hand will not stop shaking and while her mind spins in a whirlwind— _ it can’t have been that easy, can it? A Seeker of Xehanort wouldn’t be stopped with just a barrier. _ —her heart begins to crack. At first, Cinderella attributes the ache to the familiar betrayal of her trust. 

But the longer the silence sits, the worse the chasm spreads. 

When Aqua lifts her bowed head, Cinderella clamps both hands over her mouth. Any skin exposed is red and raw. There are  _ blisters _ close to Aqua's eyes—eyes that are unresponsive, the pupils shrunk down, blood pooling. A single red drop escapes like a tear, rolls down her singed cheek, lands against the blue waistcoat’s high collar. She's soaked in tea, covered in debris.

Her expression is hauntingly familiar. Cinderella struggles to remember where she’s seen it before, then scolds herself—

“I c-ca-can't, see,” Aqua whispers. Blood streams from her ruined eyes, an eerie, disturbing image that rocks Cinderella to the core. The sight is simply  _ wrong _ on every level; Aqua is not meant to be curled up against a wall, flinching at every off noise. She’s supposed to be—dead, perhaps, hollowed out from Xehanort’s plans. She’s supposed to be a Seeker, ready to reach in and gouge out Cinderella’s heart to take it back to her master. 

It’s not supposed to be like this. Cinderella can hardly see that damning gold. 

She hears a tiny, shaken mewl; she looks to the left of Aqua—

Her heart feels ready to snap in half. The conviction of Aqua’s guilt begins to drain, horribly, damningly slow.  

The Phantom lays out against the floor, shaking—choking—her silhouette snowdrift pale on the edges. There are great swathes of her body simply burnt away, cleaved through with Light. The wounds slowly grow, as if she’s a fragile creature made of paper and there’s a fire eating her up, piece by piece. The Phantom’s eyes are glossy with pain, lips trembling as she struggles to breathe. 

_ You weren’t supposed to hurt me, _ the Phantom whimpers.  _ Not you. Never you.  _

And it hits Cinderella, when she looks away with a sob. It hits her like a cane across her knuckles, why Aqua’s lost, broken expression haunts her so deeply, to the point of uprooting her conviction.

She must have looked the same the first night Tremaine threw her in the empty annex, among storage crates and old pillows a day after her father was lowered into the dirt. No finer burn or sharper pain, than to have the person meant to protect you, turn against you. It’s part of why they are both here, torn to shreds, to begin with.    

“I'm so—,” Cinderella stammers, bringing her hands close to her neck. To choke the words back? To give them structure? She’s not sure. “I didn’t  _ mean _ to—I, just, I'm so  _ sorry _ , oh Aqua, darl _ — _ ”

“You,” Aqua sucks in a breath. Her voice gains some strength. “You used the light against me?”

“I—I j—,” Cinderella's voice hitches, “—you wouldn't answer the question.” It sounds so pathetic to admit it. It hurts to  _ do this. _ Hurts to have reduced Aqua to her knees in ruined dishes and spilled tea, hurts to see her paw around in desperation. “Who. Is  _ Xehanort _ to you?”

“ _ He ruined my fucking life! _ ” Aqua roars back. She tries to stand and slips on a piece of wood, falls back to the ground. “He's the one who manipulated Terra into using the darkness! He's the one who tore Ventus in half! He killed my father, he tricked all of us!”

_ She hates me, _ the Phantom wails, dragging herself to Aqua’s side. Her legs have crumbled to motes of blue sparks, the burnt holes where the light touched her spreading slowly.  _ I knew it. I told you, _ and the Phantom's voice turns darker, her face growing colder, her expression nothing but  _ hatred _ as she turns it on Aqua,  **_I told you no one cared about you. No one wants to save you. You should have just become one with the Darkness too._ **

Cinderella looks between them in horror, her heart tight in her chest. It feels close to breaking.  _ What have I done? _

Aqua tries to stand up again, using the walls for balance. The Phantom hangs off of her waist like a hellish ghoul, the very real presentation of Aqua’s tormented past and her present twisted and forged with pain. The blood smears as Aqua swipes over her eyes, blisters bursting as her expression twists with a mix of agony and anger. Her lips are parted into a snarl, and it feels like Cinderella is staring at the broken woman from the pumpkin patch months ago.

“Aqua,” Cinderella tries, approaching her slowly, “please—”

“Don't touch me!” Aqua scrambles back. Her Keyblade is summoned. “Don't come  _ near _ me!”

“Aqua, no, just, I need to explain—”

**_I told you!_ ** The Phantom cackles as she claws her way up Aqua’s body, until one hand curls around Aqua’s throat like she means to strangle her. The Phantom’s eyes stay locked on Cinderella even as she loses definition from the waist down, her left arm from wrist to elbow consumed in light,  **_When will you LEARN!? We’re worthless, you’re nothing, worse than nothing! You should have died instead of Master! You should have died instead of Terra! YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED INSTEAD OF VENTUS!_ **

A wordless scream and the Keyblade passes through the Phantom, dissolving it completely. Aqua stumbles with her own strike, sniffing at the air and only growing more agitated.

“No shadows,” she sneers out loud, “No negative space, no— _ shut the fuck up, Terra! _ ” She swings at empty air. Cinderella watches the wreckage like she's observing a far off landslide, foundation and stone crumbling under sodden weight. Aqua has always seemed so strong—not invincible, not at all, but  _ strong— _ strong enough to live, to recover. Cinderella has known that she has been an anchor point of that recovery, as someone to be trusted, someone to depend on.

Now she's removed the anchor.

“I don't  _ want to find you! _ You're gone. You are  _ gone! _ You're all _ gone! _ ” Aqua breathes madly. She swipes at her brutalized face once more with no regard for her wounds, tearing her nails over peeling skin. An animal sound trails out of her throat. A wet, mad cackle that tips Aqua’s head back, lets her throw her terrifying amusement to the ceiling. “Oh, I get it—I get it, now! I never left. I never left the Realm of Darkness.”

“No, you have—” Cinderella tries to reach for her again. “Aqua, Aqua, you're  _ here _ with me. You're in my world, I found you in the p—”

“ _ You're _ not real either! Shut up. Shut up, _ shut up _ —I'm not listening to you.” The Keyblade is pointed in her direction, but off to the left by several feet. Guilt is the sea lapping at Cinderella's ankles, threatening to swallow her alive. “You can't trick me! Not anymore.”

“I'm real, Aqua,” Cinderella says in a small voice. “I'm  _ real _ .”

“No. The real Cinderella wouldn't  _ hurt me! _ ”

The words punch the air out of her lungs, and Aqua’s hysteria-sharp voice cleaves her to the bone. She bleeds inside as Aqua’s sword hand wavers, as they linger in another snap of silence. Cinderella closes her eyes, nearly stumbling back into the table as she tries to grasp some stability. She can’t bear to see Aqua unravel so sloppily, mortified, shame and bile burning the back of her throat. 

Quietly, she finds the connection between her heart and Aquas, and pulls softly. There’s a sharp inhale from Aqua, a tentative tug back--and then, Aqua releases her breath in a half sob: “ _ No. _ ”  

Cinderella bends her head and chokes out a whimper of her own. 

There is another round of quiet, broken by the storm outside with rumbles of thunder and the hiss of rain. When she hears the soft bells of a powerful healing spell, Cinderella opens her eyes. To her relief, the blood in Aqua's eyes is cleared, her eyesight restored, blisters gone. 

It's only a small one, though. Aqua looks at her as if Cinderella had plunged a knife into her breast and twisted it.

Or maybe, she looks like she'd have preferred it. Cinderella can't tell; when she tries to reach out with her heart, subtly following the invisible thread that always opens at her prodding to help heal Aqua's, she finds it rebuffed with prejudice. The backlash of pain physically knocks the air out of her lungs.

She should have known. Cinderella has  _ been _ inside of Aqua's heart, and she knows—she knows it. She knows Aqua. Had Aqua been a part of Xehanort all this time, she has had months to seize upon her opportunity to take Cinderella's heart over and over again. Alone, in company—who in this world can  _ stop _ Aqua, as powerful as she is?—there is nothing between Aqua and her heart but Cinderella herself.

Cinderella knows better. And yet.

Without a word, Aqua dismisses her Keyblade. She turns to the door and wrenches it open and walks out; the guards on duty let out surprised shouts and calls of her name, which go unanswered. Adam peeks his head in. His lips move, but the sound of the world has been reduced to the storm beating against the windows and the din in between Cinderella’s ears. She thinks of Aqua sinking below the waves, of herself unable to claw through an invisible barrier to lift Aqua from the water.

Has she been the one to push Aqua down? After everything? After all she's done? Even when Adam and another young man come in, leading her to a chair, Cinderella feels numb. She buries her face in her hands and weeps.

She weeps for a good, long time, until her handkerchiefs have run out, until her makeup is smudged away, until her entire head feels like a giant ache, until her lips are dry and chapped and the inside of her mouth tastes sour. It's then that she realizes the hand on her back, gently rubbing circles, and although she has no right to do so, Cinderella lets herself find comfort in the touch and turns her head up to see Gregory by her side.

“Lady Aqua left,” he tells her. The news strikes like lightning to her heart, burning a hole into it. Cinderella hopes she bleeds out, that she ceases to exist, that the humiliation and remorse kill her. “She looked like she'd been in a fight.”

“I hurt her,” Cinderella confesses, her throat raw.

“Why? Did she attempt to attack you?”

“ _ No! _ ” Cinderella denies this. “No! Not in the least, Aqua would  _ never— _ it was just, I—I thought...I misunderstood. I made a snap decision. And I—she paid for it and—” She grasps at his arm. “What if she leaves forever?”

“It's a possibility, Your Highness,” Gregory tells her gruffly. He carefully frees his arm, to kneel before her. “I could send search parties. You could call upon your lords to keep an eye out for her.”

“I hurt her. Why would I try to stop her from leaving? She deserves that choice! I—I  _ hurt her! _ ”

“So you did,” Gregory says. “What are you doing to make it up to her?”

“I—am giving her space,” Cinderella says, “I'm leaving it to her if she—if she feels she wants to come back—”

“It has been three hours, Your Majesty. With all due respect; no. You are sitting in a room and crying. You are putting it upon the Lady Aqua's own shoulders to find a way to heal. You aren't the kind of person to sit and wait for things to change, Your Highness.” Gregory holds her hands. “You are the kind of person who makes  _ sure _ it changes.”

Cinderella stares at him, then looks out to the storm. All her life, she has been told that she has had no power. Tremaine stole it from her first, leaving behind only dreams and wishes and a chance night with a Godmother. Her complacency in the palace took it again; 'to be seen and not heard', something she subconsciously adapted to. 

Well, she hid the shoe from Tremaine. She governs her kingdom as best she can with political vipers hungry to strike.

She leaps out of the chair and runs out of the room. She cuts through the laundry, leaving her shoes behind. She barges through the kitchens and out into the gardens. The storm soaks her to the skin in seconds, like thousands and thousands of cold, wet knives sluicing through her hair, ruining the bun and her elegant gown. Cinderella lets her heart lead the way, following the spider web thin thread that ties her to Aqua.

But the minute she even sets a metaphorical foot on that thread, it's rebuffed with a horrific lash of Darkness. Cinderella stumbles to a stop, leaning against a lamppost as she tries to remember how to breathe properly. There's no one on the streets to stop and stare at the bare-footed queen slogging through mud. No one to gawk and stare or even stop her as she traces the route back to her home.

The manor's locked gates are wide open when she comes upon them. She runs through, feels no shiver of dread. She slips once, smears grass and mud over her gown, cuts her foot on a stone, and gets right back up. Hobbles into the pumpkin patch, and screams over the storm, “ _ Aqua! Where are you? _ ”

No one answers her. Cinderella lets her legs drop from under her, staring up into the ongoing storm.


	10. Up All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I swear I could feel you in my arms / But there was no one there at all

The meeting goes as poorly as Cinderella expects, considering she attended it several hours late and sopping wet besides. She wants to say that she conducts it just fine, but she only half listens to the council and dismisses them entirely after thirty minutes, to their understandable outrage. She knows she's making a fool of herself, and of Charming by extension, but at this point she can't quite find it in her to care.

Gregory is very kind to her, of course. He escorts her where she needs to be and after a hot bath and dinner, Cinderella feels a bit more human. But that fades when she enters her chambers and the night and castle settle around her, letting the quiet truly sit on her chest. Her bed is made and Aqua's chair is pulled up beside it. Cinderella fixes that, of course, grunting with the effort of dragging the chair at least away so the sight of it empty isn't the first thing she sees.

Then she tries to settle in and sleep, mind whirling over her actions, guilt a stone grinding against her ribs. She tosses and turns and finds no rest or comfort. The bell tolls two in the morning and Cinderella sits up, already feeling tears again, and wanders miserably to the double doors to the side of her chambers. She passes through the tiny sitting room, then into Aqua's room proper. The bed is self made, Cinderella can tell. Aqua never liked to have her space invaded by maids, save for bathtime. In the small closet are the week's uniforms, properly hung. Draping across the back of the writing desks' chair is one of Aqua's old cloaks, the deep red one with lions and unicorns done in silver and gold embroidery at the very hem.

With trembling fingers, Cinderella picks the cloak up. Gathers it up against her chest, lips pressed to the collar. It smells faintly of smoldering sugar and the rose oil Aqua likes to use during her baths. Cinderella tries not to cry as she holds it, wishing it were the woman it belongs to instead, but a few tears drop and wet the material against her will. She sits on the old bed and lays herself out over the covers. She tells herself that she's trying to seek comforts from her life before princes and Keyblades and Heartless, and that might be true, somewhat.

The sheets smell like Aqua, too. Proof that she actually does sleep, even if Cinderella never knows when that is. She wraps herself in the cloak and presses her face against Aqua's pillow, and drifts off.

Her dreams are restless and full of dark and forbidden shapes. Maleficient’s malice hounds her like starving wolves, their open jaws screaming,  _ Give us your Heart! Give us your Heart!  _ Thorny branches tangle around her wrists and ankles, threatening to drag her down. She kicks free, only to find her footing falling out from under her, sending her tumbling down a steep incline. She feels the hot breath of the beasts against the nape of her neck before they vanish and she hits the water, bouncing along the solid surface of it. Sunlight beats down on her tired, aching body as she lies prone, finding no comfort, no coolness, nothing.

Cinderella sobs, and hits the water once, venting her mounting frustration. The splash is marginally satisfying, but only for a moment, and after that moment she remembers Aqua’s face—her wounded, raw, bloodied face—and the guilt could eat her alive. When the rain starts, without any cloud cover, Cinderella bites back another sob and lifts her head. 

Aqua stands over her. The rain sparkles against her high cheeks, darkens her hair to glossy sapphire. She cries red, but her expression is forgiving, gentle, even as Cinderella scrambles to her feet, lunging to hold her shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry!” Cinderella gasps, digging her nails in. She can’t let Aqua leave again; she  _ won’t _ . She won’t let her vanish, into the dark or the dawning horizon. She’ll keep Aqua safe and whole and she won’t forget the way Aqua’s heart, as fragile as it was, never stopped holding on, never stopped letting Cinderella in, soldiering pain and love in equal shares. “Aqua, I was just—I w-was scared, I was scared you were working for Xehanort, I didn’t mean to—”

Aqua cups her cheek. The cold chill of her skin against Cinderella’s makes her jump, her heart leaping in her throat. There is no judgement in Aqua’s eyes, not even as she strokes Cinderella’s face without a word. 

“ _ How she longed to burn in you, _ ” Aqua whispers tenderly. The words make Cinderella freeze up, but Aqua’s hand passes over her cheek again, soft and slick with rain. “Little cinder-girl, didn’t you realize the fire of your heart would eat her alive?”

“No,” Cinderella chokes around the lump in her throat. She digs her nails into Aqua’s shoulders, to the point that she should draw blood but she doesn’t. Cinderella feels her blood running cool, sluggish. “Please,  _ please _ tell me I didn’t…”

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” Aqua presses her lips against Cinderella’s forehead, her skin forge-metal hot. “Do you hear me?  _ It’s alright _ . My precious girl. My darling. I am with you both.”

“What are you talking about?” Cinderella half sobs, “ _ what do you mean? _ What, what  _ are you?” _

Aqua laughs, low and rich. The blood dripping from her eyes doesn’t dilute in the rainfall, but as her face fractures, shimmers, prisms, it’s lost. She appears distorted, strange, inhuman. Cinderella tries to jerk away in fear, but Aqua’s hands latch against her elbows. “I am the palest imitation of the power inside of you, forged from her heart to protect her, but now I cannot. Will you protect her? Will your heart shelter hers?”

Cinderella isn’t sure what to say. Not when Aqua rests her hand over Cinderella’s heart. Not when she shoves Cinderella backward with that hand. 

Cinderella falls back into the water, and the water opens its jaws and clamps down over her head.

Sinking down, down, down. Light ripples above her, broken by cresting waves. Standing on top of the water, Aqua crouches down. There’s a sad smile on her lips, blood pouring over her cheeks; she raises a finger to her lips, and when Cinderella blinks, she’s gone. Salt in the wound. 

Is this how it ends between them, Cinderella wonders quietly, as the light fades the further she falls, and the ghostly ambiance flooding her ears and pressing all around her.  Aqua, ruined by her betrayal; vanished without another word. Bitterness and cruelty...surely, surely not. That can’t—

That cannot be the  _ ending _ of their story—

There's something sharp and warm in her hand. Cinderella brings her arm around to look, and there’s the star shaped charm Aqua had been holding in her dream before, the leather strap wrapped around her fingers. It sits perfectly in her palm, like she was meant to hold it; in the blue sheen it produces, Cinderella can see herself, lost and lonely.

_ Finally, _ Aqua's voice echoes in the space,  _ I can become one...with the Darkness. _

The blissful resignation sends fear into her heart, filling it up until it nearly bursts. Aqua had never been affected by  _ Xehanort _ —and while Aqua has not presented physical evidence to claim her innocence, Cinderella believes her about everything. She’s not sure if Aqua’s voice is just a nightmare born from her own subconscious, a fragment memory left over from one of their dives, or—God, please,  _ no _ —an echo from a present thought. 

_ No! _ , Cinderella tries to scream, but the word is lost to the water as bubbles rush outward. She squeezes the charm tight, her lungs burning for air,  _ Don't give up! I'm still here! _

She presses the star against her heart—if it was with Aqua before, then surely it means  _ something _ to her—and pours her light into it, until the metal and glass sear white hot against her skin. Stars mean home, their trade ships navigate using them all the time, so maybe—maybe, if she makes this bright enough—maybe it will bring Aqua home too.

Cinderella wakes up with a genuine gasp, her chest heaving as if she was truly submerged. She coughs as sweet air flows into her lungs, drying out her mouth and throat. She sits up, one hand pressing against her sternum as she remembers to breathe, counting backwards in her head. Then, she recognizes a weight in her other; slowly, Cinderella uncurls the fingers of her left hand. 

The charm sits there, glass shining with a few drops of water. She gapes down at the charm; the leather cord is still damp around her fingers.  _ How did it…? _

There’s no possible way she should have it. Not without breaching the barrier of reality and dreams. But the charm is there, as real as Cinderella herself is; and when she looks harder at it, the blue panes shimmer in the cracked beam of sunlight that sneaks through the barely open curtains. Magical. 

Cinderella sees herself, opaque, in the there. It’s warm, and it tingles, and she—

—Has no  _ idea what it’s doing here.  _ Only that it belongs to Aqua, has the soft sheen of her magic in its glass, has the pure gloss of her strength in the silver frames that hold it. 

A knock comes at the door. “Highness?!” Gregory demands.

“Y-yes, I—Just a minute, please!” Cinderella untangles the string from her fingers and loops it around her neck, tucking it beneath her nightgown's collar. It rests secure against her heart. And, somehow, hope roils up beneath her again, helps her steady on. She stands up and rushes back into her own chambers, encountering confused and harried maids once she passes through the adjoining sitting room.

They dress her for the day, not commenting on how their queen arrived from the absent guard's room with her cloak and a strange charm; Cinderella, for once, doesn't care what kind of gossip flourishes in the eaves after this. She knows that Aqua will find her way home when she's ready. That will be enough to keep her strong.

A week later, Cinderella still holds tight to this conviction.

A second week passes, and Aqua still remains absent. Cinderella holds onto the charm and keeps it bright.

A third. A sort of numb settles in as Cinderella realizes that, perhaps, Aqua may not want to come home after all.

By the time a month rolls onward, she feels thoroughly drained. Everything inside of her hurts, though she is in good health. Three more meetings with the council have come and gone, and though Cinderella remains strong against their demands for high taxes upon the common folk, their eyes grow sharper and their aggression more passive. Cinderella knows when she is being mocked, whether outwardly or behind a compliment; she was raised on them.

She tries not to let the barbs sink in and stay too easily. But it's hard when she cannot count on Aqua's silent reassurance, the unspoken guarantee of absolute safety. Gregory is stretched thin enough with his duties to act as a bodyguard all the time, and he was the closest to Aqua in terms of aura and precision. She cries easily at night and hates herself for it in the morning; it feels like being back with Tremaine and her girls.

By the second month, Cinderella finds strength in their venom; fights back with more of her own. Soon she doesn’t need Gregory in the room with her, hauling around a lion’s share of false bravado to deal with the cackling hyenas swarming her. As the summer reaches its peak, and the droughts come in, she  _ forces _ the lords to give her people the access to their wells, their reservoirs. While Charming deals with the enemies to the south, Cinderella defends the king from within. She wears Aqua’s charm like a badge, like armor, and on some days that’s enough to keep her out of the side room, desperately wrapped up in cloaks and blankets that carry the lingering char of sugar. 

In the third month of Aqua’s absence—which Cinderella celebrates the anniversary of with half a bottle of wine, alone, in her husband’s study—she organizes festivals, keeps the morale of the kingdom in balance with their budgets, their finances, their taxes. It can’t be too grand; usually the beginning of fall means a weeklong celebration, with cider and all kinds of apple products. Most of the year’s harvest had been sent frontlines, and what remains is for the people to eat, to dry, preserve for the coming winter. 

It will be a hard one. Cinderella feels it in her bones.

The council throws a fit among fits as she arranges for a fifth of their personal estates’ harvests to be donated for the autumn festival. They cry and scorn—accuse her of theft—the gall, honestly. If only the people knew what bureaucratic villainy lurked in every sheet of paper their leaders push her way. 

Eventually, the festival goes only three days later than usual. The majority of the citizens are simply thrilled to have a moment to breathe. Cinderella knows she has her critics hiding in the winds, whispering poison, but on the night as an enormous bonfire roars in the center of the city, supervised but allowed to warm the mass of her people, Cinderella sips her own cider with a smile. 

_ Isn’t it beautiful, A _ —

She forces the thought away with a pang of pain. Rubs her thumb over the mysterious, magical artifact around her neck, and thinks,  _ I hope you’re safe. _

A month later Cinderella wakes up early on the dawn of her thirty-fifth birthday, and merely stares at her ceiling. She supposes she should feel somewhat happy, but she doesn't. There's no one to truly celebrate here with, without Charming or Aqua or Godmother or the mice. The staff of the castle are all lovely people, and Cinderella cares about them, but none of them are quite friendly enough. There's too much of a divide in power for any true, equal bond to form.

Her maids come in an hour after the dawn breaks, and dress her in another beautiful gown. She suffers through the corset's laces, the thousands of buttons, the makeup. Her attendant Gertrude begins to brush and curl and style her hair when there comes a knock at the door. A sandy blonde woman wearing the kingdom's red and gold enters through after a moment. The front line messenger, Cinderella realizes.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” the messenger greets, bowing low. “And a happy birthday!”

“Thank you, miss,” Cinderella says. “News from the front?”

“Aye, ma'am. Over the campaign we've only lost twenty two men; His Majesty works night and day on a diplomatic solution, but our line holds firm, and the enemy weakens by the day.”

The staff in Cinderella's room are silent, both in relief and in mourning. Twenty two men lost is still a tragedy, in Cinderella's eyes, but she knows it could be far, far worse. And if Charming is in diplomacy talks, then the war just might be over soon.

“And,” the messenger holds up a thick envelope, with Charming's seal, grinning, “His Majesty had me ride hard to make sure this was delivered to you on your special day!”


	11. Let It Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I never meant to let it die / I just don't care about you anymore / It's not fair when you say that I didn't try / I just don't care about you anymore

The messenger hurries to hand it over, and Cinderella accepts with a smile she knows is forced. It seems to work, though; no one else wonders why she should be so hesitant to accept her husband's letter. Just like none of them seem to want to question her on why she spends every other night in her former bodyguard's bedroom, or how the strange charm never leaves her neck.

“Why don't you go and get some sleep, my dear,” Cinderella says to the messenger, who looks ready to drop dead on her feet. “I'm sure you must be exhausted after the long journey.”

“Too right,” the messenger agrees around a yawn. “Is there anything you require of me, Your Highness?”

“No, no, that's all. Thank you so very much for your hard work.”

“It's a pleasure, ma'am.” The messenger bows again and sways out of the room, presumably to find a spare set of chambers to pass out in.

Cinderella calls for a letter opener as the work on her hair continues, and she opens the envelope. There are three sheets of parchment inside, filled top to bottom with script. Cinderella stares for a moment, her smile freezing on her face.

This isn't Charming's handwriting.

It's too neat, too precise. The writer curls the 'y's with too much flair. At first, it reads like any other of Charming's letters. He says hello, he wishes her a happy birthday, he tells her that everything is going smoothly—though not in too much detail, just in case. And by all means, Cinderella would be content to let herself think that perhaps he's dictating to someone else to write it down—it wouldn't be the first time.

And then the writer decides to go off script. She reveals that it's been a real treat 'serving' the crown in ways that Cinderella cannot. How passionate the king can be when frustrated. His stamina. How stupid Cinderella is for having such a powerful man at her beck and call and rebuffing him.

And she'd be content to believe that this is some petty lie, up until it mentions that the king confesses to being tired of tiptoeing around the subject of Tremaine and her step sisters. How he feels like she lives too much in the past, and lets it restrain her. That's how she knows it's real.

Cinderella braves the entire letter with a smile on her face and folds it up and puts it back in the envelope. Her heart feels very, very small, whittled away by Charming's words. It's not just that he has a very petty—and, frankly, stupid—mistress. It's that he told this stranger about Cinderella's personal weaknesses during two weeks they've spent together.

“He wished me a very marvelous birthday,” Cinderella says, her voice warm but the inside of her cold. She has to resist clutching Aqua's charm in her hands. “Now, what else is on the agenda for today...? I seem to have forgotten. Will someone fetch me the Grand Duke?”

“At once, Highness,” a maid says, gathering a handful of dishes on a tray.

“How much longer on this style, Gertrude?” Cinderella asks pleasantly.

“Not much longer, Highness. Give me just twenty more minutes and I'll have you looking  _ nice _ and primped for your special day!”

“If that's what you'd like.” She's exhausted. She's furious. She's sick with heartbreak and loneliness. She wants Aqua now more than ever, wants her with such a fervor that it makes her head spin. She wonders if Aqua would be able to see through the mask she's erected for the castle staff. Cinderella wonders if Aqua would smell Charming's wrongdoings just from the paper, wonders how she'd react.

Would Aqua be angry on her behalf? Most likely. Aqua is wonderfully empathetic and so good-hearted, she'd never be able to stand this. But Aqua isn't here, hasn't been here for several months, and—thanks to Cinderella's actions—will probably never come back again.

It's just like with Charming, in a way. Cinderella's own reluctance with their physical relationship drove an invisible wedge between them, and now her overreaction to Kairi's warnings and the past have driven Aqua away, too. She's absolutely deplorable.

Soon she is dressed and a contingent of maids escort her out into the hall, where Grand Duke Leopold waits outside. He unrolls a scroll of parchment, nodding to himself, blinking sleep out of his eyes. Cinderella feels a slight twitch of guilt for forcing him awake at such an hour, but she truly has no idea what the plans of the day are; her schedule is unreachable, overlaid with the memory of Charming's betrayal.

“Well, a public ride through the city is first on the agenda for the day, Highness. Followed by a public address and a brief ride through the provinces to collect a minor tithe from the people.”

“I don't want their money,” Cinderella says sharply, then clears her throat. “I've spent the last few months making sure their  _ lords _ didn't overtax them—”

“It's purely symbolic, Your Highness,” the Grand Duke hurries to correct, seeing the stubborn jut of Cinderella's chin. “The tithe is not money, usually it's simply a basket of their finest crop, or a bottle of the best wine of the year—little things, Your Highness.”

“Is it necessary?” Cinderella asks heavily.

“Not...legally. However, it would be awfully rude if you did not at least make an attempt to be seen by the people...”

“Of course, of course. And the dinner tonight?”

“Lord Gerrit is bringing his best chef and serving staff with him to prepare your feast, Highness.”

A brief pause. In a very small voice, Cinderella asks, “And there's no way to cancel it without causing an incident, is there?”

“I am...afraid not,” Leopold answers, looking genuinely chagrined. “There is more than a bit of...unrest, considering your past, erm, firmness with the lords of the provinces. The nobility are beginning to grow wary. If you snub them today, it could be twisted as the first selfish act of a growing tyrant.”

_ Growing tyrant?! _ Cinderella feels her stomach roil with bile and outrage. She just barely restrains herself from snapping at the Grand Duke, reeling back in her vitriol before it has a chance to hurt someone else. “I'm not sure I understand that. I have been working to ensure that the  _ council _ does not overtax their own subjects.”

“I know this, and the peasantry know it—”

“Peasantry,” Cinderella scoffs, disgusted. The word makes them sound lesser than, as if any person's worth is determined by the money they earn, or the money they inherit. Cinderella was a lesser nobleman's daughter before she became a scullery maid that worked for bread; then again, well, she's successfully driven off an innocent woman who needed her help, and her failure as a wife has lead to her husband's infidelity. What makes her so much better than anyone on the council—

Oh, good. She's even more tired now.

“Fine. The dinner will go as planned, as will all public appearances. Can't be  _ selfish _ , after all.” She lifts a bit of her dress to clear the way for her feet. She waits for a second set of footsteps to join with her, by her side—she's waiting for Aqua—and somehow succeeds in not bursting into tears at the silence that shadows her instead.

She is lead down and out of the castle and into an ostentatious carriage with no top, the sides and railings bedecked in a riot of blue and white blossoms. There's not a cloud in the sky and the air is crisp and light. By all accounts, Cinderella's birthday, weather wise, is a beautiful, peaceful time. But there is no privacy to decompress after her horrible morning, and no one to confide in. She is very, very alone.

The day is long, and arduous. Cinderella lies the entire day, telling everyone how happy she is, how brave the king is, how wonderful of a time she's having visiting with a group of bakers who offer up a basket of rolls made from 'the finest wheat in all the kingdom'. The winemakers sell her the same thing. So do the weavers and the seamstresses and the whole of the kingdom, all day, until sundown when they ride back to the castle for a pointless dinner that Cinderella doesn't even want.

Her feet are sore and her body aches. And there's a strange feeling in the air as dusk settles over the castle. She finally gives in to the urge to hold onto Aqua's charm, gripping tightly. She finds a little strength from it—some small bit of hope still left, that Aqua will come back—but then she lets go as soon as she remembers that she must go in.

She is announced to polite applause, and takes her seat at the head of the table. There is an empty chair where Charming would sit. Waiters coast around the grand table, portioning out the meal; Cinderella receives a particularly hearty chunk of roast and turkey and ham from a familiar face. Even she lightens a touch seeing Herman dressed up and beaming. His finery is clearly a last minute tailored job, but he looks dapper and proud.

“Findin' everything alright now, Your Highness?” Herman asks her as posh as he can get it. Cinderella stifles a little giggle.

“It smells delicious, Herman, thank you.”

“How's your birthday goin' so far? Ready for your cake?!” Herman asks Cinderella with hushed glee. “Cake's m'favorite part!”

“It's going very well so far. I've spent most of it receiving such splendid gifts and surprises from our esteemed guests.” Cinderella says this loud enough for a few noblemen on the council overhear, and they look pleased. “Lord Gerrit's personal chef and crew cooked for here tonight, didn't he?”

She trails her eyes across the room, and notices something odd. Gerrit's men stand to guard at every window and door, instead of her own. Come to think of it, Cinderella doesn't remember seeing Gregory or any of the others on the way in.

Herman's voice snaps her back to attention. “Sure did. Insisted that his very best provide for you t'day, ma'am.”

“How...generous of him,” Cinderella murmurs, doubt lacing her voice. Gerrit has made no secret that he, as the one to act as the next regent should something happen to her, has little love for his queen. He's her loudest and most outspoken detractor and critic. Something feels off.

Cinderella cuts her eyes across to the other end of the table. Lord Gerrit and his wife and oldest children sit on the left, happily feasting. None of them have the deep-rooted feel of darkness, but Gerrit seems to seethe of it, stronger than ever. A guard in green comes to Gerrit's side and bends to whisper into his ear. Cinderella sees a smile curl his lips, ugly, and the air grows thick with the perfume of evil.

Cinderella goes still as she senses it, a sudden sharp pang running through her body. She opens her mouth, just as Lord Gerrit rockets to his feet.

“Friends!” he bellows. “My friends, my family, countrymen—come, come! Let's have us a toast, shall we?”

Waiters with green lining their vests stream from the doors, wine bottles in hand. They line up in rows around the table. Cinderella pales when she catches their eyes flickering with a sickly yellow sheen. She catches Herman's wrist and tugs him closer on instinct, trying to shield the young man from something warped and twisted on the horizon. Something in her expression must tell him more than she's comfortable with, because he does not protest; his muscles tense beneath her hands.

“A toast,” Gerrit calls again. He holds his own glass, and the guests, confused, follow his lead. “To our gracious and lovely Queen. Were it  _ not _ for her...kindness, and sensitivity, and  _ generosity _ surely, this kingdom and we, the noble class, would all be in a very, very different place.”

“Please, may we save this for later?” Cinderella digs her fingers in, and Herman begins to tremble. “I rather think that it's far too early for such a thing.”

“Surely you wouldn't begrudge us this, Your Highness?” Pendlebrooke adds. “Just one sip. I've saved this wine just for your party.”

The other noblemen from the council look upon her with delight. It's not genuine. Cinderella finds herself strangled to silence, looking around and finding no allies save for Herman. The waiters take her silence as permission to open their bottles and pour. The wine is deep purple, swirling violets in the center of the glass once it's poured.

“Such a shame, your guard dog won't be here to see this momentous occasion,” Gerrit says mildly as he swirls his wine, letting it breathe. Her hand goes to the charm around her neck and she grips it tighter than ever, desperately calling out to Aqua in her mind as the guests gather their glasses in a toast. Cinderella is forced to do the same, and her hand shakes as they wish her a happy birthday.

“Take a sip, Cinderella,” Gerrit coaxes as the rest of the guests do the same. He grins unnaturally wide, as she puts the rim to her lips.


	12. All the Right Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you think I'm special, do you think I'm nice / Am I bright enough to shine in your spaces

Aqua wakes up, curtailing her scream behind her teeth and tightening it in her throat before it has any chance to leave. She's covered in sweat, teeth clenched so hard her jaw aches, nails digging into the meat of her palms. 

Another nightmare. More like a memory come to haunt her in the dark; this time it was her fight with...with Ventus, possessed by Vanitas. The fallout of her failure to protect him—his heart forever lost in sleep—and then Terra’s death, hot on the heels, and finally her imprisonment…

Oh, the walking. The endless, endless walking. Aqua remembers that like she remembers her first sword lesson. How her legs turned to lead long after exhaustion had wrung her dry of any emotion, how she’d dropped to the ground only to scramble up as the Heartless swarmed on her body…

She hunches in bed, swallowing back her nausea as she curls into a tight ball. Smashes her fists against the sides of her head in an attempt to beat the fucking shit back into the depths of her brain.

“I am not in the Realm of Darkness,” Aqua chants under her breath, rocking back and forth. “I am not in the Realm of Darkness.” 

She repeats it three times more until she feels—well, not fine, Aqua’s never  _ fine _ —and drops back onto her bed. The Phantom curls up next to her, one arm slung against her waist and lips to her ear, snickering. 

**_Had a bad dream?_ ** A click of the tongue.  **_Moron. We haven’t healed a bit._ **

“You wanted to leave too,” Aqua says tonelessly. “You  _ needed _ to. She hurt you.” A desperate giggle escapes her; reduced to talking to a spectre of herself for, what, comfort? With the way they’re entwined like this, Aqua fears she’s developing some kind of complex.

**_Yes, you’ve just about mastered ‘self love’, huh?_ **

“You’re disgusting.”

**_We’re disgusting,_** the Phantom snarls, then vanishes to sulk at the window. Good riddance. Of course, Terra stands at her bedside an instant later, which magnifies the ache in the back of her skull.

_ Aqua _ , Terra says, his arms reaching out as if to shake her.  _ Aqua, I'm back, I'm here. It's me. I'm here. Aqua! Wherever you are, you have to find us! _

“Shut up,” she groans softly, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes.

Since the...incident four months ago, Aqua has noticed that she's been headed in a sort of backslide. Terra only comes in the night, now, which is an improvement in its timing, but he's been more...lucid, Aqua guesses is the proper term. He no longer babbles nonsense when he appears. Her own wishful thinking? Whatever. It's a somewhat pleasant change from all the shouting his ghost used to do.

What isn't is that the Phantom is louder than ever, practically holding her hand and whispering a mix of advice and vitriol, depending on the way Aqua feels about herself that day. But what else is new?

Hm. What else indeed; Xehanort is still alive. Apparently. She doesn't know what she wants to do about that. Her conscience roars for justice, but the rest of her? She's tired. She's tired of fighting, of putting everything out on the line for someone else, for a cause, only to be slapped down for it.

She worked just as hard as Terra in training, making up for her lack of physical strength with her magic, her footwork. She'd bled just as much, broken just as hard a sweat. She won her Mark of Mastery fair and square. And all she'd gotten from Eraqus was a congratulations followed by a pair of missions to deceive and hurt her friends. Nothing from the boys—well. Nothing that wasn't used to insult her later.

And it stung so deeply. Terra had blatantly despised her and Ventus had lost any respect for her the minute Terra had stormed off. She'd tried, so, so hard to please the both of them and protect them at the same time and she'd failed.

And then? Cinderella hadn’t hesitated to do the same, turning her back and throwing Aqua to the wolves.

_ Aqua, please, we need you! _

Aqua swipes a hand through Terra's image, banishing him. At least she doesn't hallucinate Ventus anymore, outside of dreams at least. She's exhausted. Seeing him out  _ here _ would just...complicate it all.

She runs her fingertips around the smooth, scarless skin around her eyes. Pets the pads over her eyelids to close them, just a moment, then reopens to see the murky inn ceiling. Aqua has never been hurt by such a strong blast of light before. The results of that, physically, she managed to heal; the real wound lies deeper still. Cinderella's lack of trust in her, her  _ attack _ , ripped the earth out from beneath Aqua’s feet. It stomped on the remains of her pride.

Awful.  _ Worthless. _

Ugh. Enough of this. She swings out of bed to wash and heal her hands in the small bowl of water the inn provides, dressing in her old tunic and breeches bought secondhand. On the day she left, Aqua took the bulk of her wages and beat feet for the deeper parts of the city, discarding her uniform on the way. As far as everyone else knows, she's a stranger with odd eyes and plenty of gold to stay, eat, and brood in peace.

Perfect. Until the money runs out. Then, whatever. She'll vanish into the wilderness, probably.

Aqua has no intentions of returning to the dream tonight; she'll watch the dawn if that's what it takes. She paces the length of her room, renewing her barriers and ignoring the Phantom blatantly staring to the castle. The Phantom's changed physically too; she matches Aqua’s current state perfectly. Aqua has no idea what that means for her heart. She’s pretty certain what her mental state’s all about.

“Stop that,” she says quietly. “Get yourself together.”

_ I want to see her, _ the Phantom whines back. Choosing softness again, it seems.  _ I want to be in that light again _ .

With a scoff of self-borne disgust Aqua leans against the wall by her bed. She's not sure she's ready to trust Cinderella again. Four months later and the hurt—well, it lingers.

And maybe this in itself is an overreaction, but trusting too blindly had lead to her falling into the Realm of Darkness to begin with; she'll take no chances this time. She wishes she would stop feeling so  _ fucking _ guilty, though.

The thoughts haven't stopped. What if Cinderella's in trouble? There's little news from the castle of her state, aside from alive or dead. A while back, the popular queen of the people had managed to organize a lovely fall festival, which Aqua watched from indoors and privately wished she could join, but that barely counted as a measurement of wellness. 

Well, at least there hasn't been a cry out for kingdom-wide mourning. No, today's been spent in  _ celebration _ ; the queen turned thirty five today. No doubt she's eating food richer than the gruel and bread Aqua buys daily—

_ Might be poisoned, _ the Phantom says bitterly.  _ She could die without me. I don't want her to die. _

Of course Aqua doesn't. That goes without saying. But Cinderella had seen every corridor of her heart, had pressed against the foundation of her very  _ soul _ , and still found her wanting. Found her untrustworthy enough to blast her with pure light, burning at the Darkness inside of her.

(But Aqua had seen her expression. She’d brought up the name Xehanort for—for a reason. Had she assumed Aqua was working with him, for something? The thought makes her skin crawl, but maybe—

—Maybe she should have been clearer? Should have countered Cinderella’s panic not with placidity and deflection, but honesty. Maybe she should have trusted Cinderella back. Maybe she…)

Stupid, Aqua scolds herself as she discards her thoughts. Stupid to trust, to hope, to—

To wish.

_ I miss you _ , the Phantom whispers to the castle; Aqua’s lips form the words along with her, and she can’t even be angry. 

Because, dammit. She does. She misses Cinderella and their routines like—like she misses meditations in the morning before her lessons. Like she misses lunchtime with the boys. Misses Cinderella now like she did thirteen years ago, seeing the castle’s ramparts in the Realm of Darkness. 

Aqua had been so, so afraid. So terrified that Cinderella and her world both had been swallowed up and destroyed. Walking through the graveyard of the city, reminiscing over cats in nooks and ghosts she’s since met and interacted with, the fear had been simmering like soup on the stove. But once she’d discovered Cinderella hadn’t been lost it had been like a shot of  _ feeling _ cleaving into her heart, spearing it with all that Aqua had needed to go on. 

That bit of feeling had been beaten out with the Phantom and the fucking mirrors, of course, but the fact remains that it had been there to begin with. 

All the memories make her sigh. Aqua runs her hands through her hair, sniffs, and wonders;  _ maybe she misses me too _ .  

A glimmer outside of her window makes Aqua tilt her head. Curious, she approaches; the Phantom's eyes are locked onto the castle like a hunting hound. Aqua can see a star-bright shine of blue pulsing frantically; her own heart stirs like a bear waking from hibernation, roaring against the cage of her chest. With a gasp, Aqua doubles over and grips at the windowsill for balance; through the dust and grime she spots Ventus on the cobble streets for the first time in ages.

Oh, her boy. He looks so regal in his armor, the wind sweeping his hair. He points to the castle, his expression haunted, and then takes off at a run. Aqua watches him run, and feels a string inside of her pulling taunt, thrumming with energy. At the end of that thread in her is Cinderella's heart, calling out to her own.

The Phantom whispers:  _ she needs us. _

And Aqua opens the gates where she closed them, tentatively reaching out to discover what has Cinderella so frightened—immediately she is slammed with an onset of great Darkness, blinks away dozens of golden eyes shining across a table strewn with a feast, and the taste of terror on the back of her tongue. Smells poison. Hears Cinderella praying that she comes home.

Just like that, her decision is made. Cinderella will die if she doesn’t go back.

The blue light grows in intensity. Marking the way.


	13. Falling Inside The Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling in the black / Slipping through the cracks / Falling through the depths, can I ever go back? / Dreaming of the way it used to be /
> 
>  
> 
> Can you hear me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic violence in full force. Multiple character deaths. It's number 13 baby.

Aqua gathers her coin and bursts out of her room. She throws the heavy purse and key on the bar to a shocked owner, shouting, “Keep all of it!” over her shoulder as she thunders out of the tavern. The Phantom glides beside her as she leaps up and onto the roof of the nearest house, gathering her magic and the wind at her back, soaring through the air. Ventus was always faster than her, but Aqua was the most agile of their trio, and there is no obstacle she cannot dance around or find a way through.

She lands in front of the castle steps in a roll, sprinting up them two at a time. The fact that there are no guards on duty at the doors sends a shiver of horror down her spine. She begins to dash through the hallway, when she notes a propped-open door to a powder room. She brakes hard, peeks inside, and her mouth falls open.

Maisie lays there in a pool of blood, her throat torn from ear to ear. The old seamstress who'd taken her measurements and vowed to make her a pretty dress, Catherina, is huddled in a corner, half her face missing from a musket shot. There are tear tracks dried on her ash pale face.

More scenes of horror await her as Aqua runs through the castle; servants she'd spent months with, dead or dying. Guards she'd trained with in the morning, tied up and piled like stuck pigs. She's crashing through to the eastern side of the castle when a body flies at her, dressed in crimson. Aqua summons Master's Defender all the same, and catches the man with her other arm; warmth soaks the front of her tunic immediately, and she smells iron-rich death.

The man clinging to a shoulder looks up. Aqua chokes out, “Oh,  _ Gregory _ —” as they sink to the ground together.

“Y-you came back,” Gregory says, blood bubbling over his chin. The front of his uniform is soaked red in blood, saber wounds gouged in deep. “Thank God, you came back.” His blood-slick hand grabs at her collar, tighter than a dying man should be able to. “C-coup. Gerrit's me-men, attack-ked us. From within. He's after Her Highness.”

_ Bastard! Find him! Kill him! _ The Phantom roars at once.

“Hang on,” Aqua rasps, preparing a Curaga, “Gregory, stay with m—”

He's slack in an instant, his hand limply falling from her collar. There's no smile of relief, no damning scowl. He's simply dead, cut down by men he thought he could trust. Her heart writhes in agony, Eraqus's face superimposed over Gregory's. She hadn't been there when Terra had been tricked into cutting down Eraqus. She hadn't been there for her father; perhaps, if she had, then the tragedy would have been avoided.

Just like here. If Aqua had simply pushed through her own hurt, she could have seen this coming. But there's no more time; she lays Gregory down, swiping his eyes shut and leaping over his body. There isn't enough time to save everyone, heal every wound, not when Cinderella is at stake. Aqua follows the call of her heart blindly, coming upon the hallway that leads into the dining hall. Two men in green stand at attention, their eyes blank yellow, blood dried on their coats.

Aqua doesn't hesitate. As they come at her blindly, she twists and the teeth of Master's Defender cuts across one neck, and then they shred through the chest of another. Aqua aim a burst of concentrated magic at the locked doors in front of her, destroying them in an instant.

The smell of poison almost overwhelms her. The guests of Cinderella's dinner are drinking deeply from their glasses when Aqua bursts in, drawing shocked cries that slowly fade into choked gasps, gurgles, groans. Cinderella has a glass to her lips in one hand and Ven tucked under her other arm, and Aqua feels the panic consume her.

“ _ Don't! _ ” she shrieks. “ _ It's poison! _ ”

Cinderella throws the glass aside before the wine ever touches her tongue. Ventus whips around in shock; Cinderella wears Aqua’s Wayfinder around her neck, over her heart, proud as you please and bright as a star. The waiter behind her draws out a dagger from his side, eyes gold as he intends to plunge it into her neck. Aqua reacts like lightning, severing the arm at the shoulder; the waiter doesn't scream as the pungent smell of Darkness turns overwhelming.

Aqua locks eyes with Gerrit and watches the brown flash to gold. There's a stillness, a moment of unrealistic quiet. Cinderella chokes out her name; Aqua feels her ears pop and her stomach drop. Gerrit's expression goes utterly slack. Aqua gathers Cinderella and Ventus close, throwing up her strongest barrier around them as she leaps down. Waves of ebony energy crash over the prismatic tiles of her barrier as the dining room erupts into screams. The darkness claws at Aqua's spine, hissing against her heart.

“Wh-what's happening!” Ventus wails, his voice strangely familiar even though it's not his own. His eyes are wide, face gone stark pale. He starts to cry as the howls cease, the shadows coalescing into one. “Oh, my God, what's h-h-h-happening?!”

“Ven, listen to me,” Aqua say, heart bursting with sensation. Master's Defender remains in her hand, bright against the dim dome. She casts her barrier again, just in time for an enormous fist to slam against it, forming cracks against the reformed spell. “I'm going to get you out of here.” She looks to Cinderella, sweating. “I'm getting you  _ both _ out of here.”

Time seems to slow. Cinderella’s eyes widen a fraction more, and she looks down to Ven, who trembles in her arms and then back to Aqua. There’s a sickly pale undertone to Cinderella’s skin, enhanced by her makeup and the terror in her expression. 

It’s like she’s seen a ghost. 

“Trust me,” Aqua hisses. Like she has any right to. Like she’s still Cinderella’s bodyguard, like there isn’t a span of heartbreak sitting like broken glass between them, curried by four months of absence. There’s no time for apologies from either of them. “I’ll keep you safe.”

The Wayfinder at Cinderella’s throat shimmers blue, almost a match for the fireheart blaze of her eyes.

“I know you will,” Cinderella finally whispers, her arms caging Ventus against her chest to protect him.

The fist comes down again, smashing the barrier to bits, and reels back for one more hit. Aqua gathers every last scrap of energy she can, emboldened and revived by Cinderella’s faith and trust, and casts a third barrier over only Ventus and Cinderella, spinning to her feet. A roar of effort leaves her throat hoarse as she throws all her weight into parrying the behemoth hand with nothing but her Keyblade and her own raw strength.

She doesn't see the second or third arms coming from beneath the shadow of its strike.

The second hand, three-fingered and taloned, catches her in the gut to dig its claws deep into flesh. The razor’s edge of its talons  _ nearly _ graze her heart, bringing a shriek of fear and pain out of the Phantom and a choked, gurgled mess of noise out of Aqua’s throat. A rush of blood follows, horrific poison slinking close to her heart with grasping, angry little hands. 

The third hand, shaped like a blade’s angry point, punctures the barrier and sinks into Ventus's chest. Aqua can only stare agog with horror as Ventus struggles in death throes, blood spraying from his mouth and catching Cinderella's cheek. Then Aqua blinks and there’s Herman in his place, eyes going dim as he draws a last, ragged scrap of breath. His corpse cold stare remains on hers, even as his body crumbles into dust, eaten away, his heart sucked into the Heartless’s never-ending hunger. 

_ “Aqua!”  _ Cinderella screams. Her eyes, streaming with tears, are on the claws in Aqua's gut.

Aqua has no time to think; the fist in her stomach lifts her up and throws her clean out of the window. She grunts as she lands, skidding across stone and then rolling into grass. She sucks a tortured breath, coughs, and shakes shards of glass out of her hair and clothing. Her skull throbs and blood pours from her abdomen, her arms and legs where the window glass sliced through thin cloth and leather.

Clutching her sodden shirt with one hand, Aqua stumbles back onto her feet. Tries to process.  _ Ventus was never here, _ she thinks in guilty relief that turns to lead fear in her chest.  _ Cinderella—! _

The stone walls of the castle groan as the Heartless follows her out. The walls bulge outwards before exploding into a shower of debris and clouds of dusty smoke, a massive shape of void slithering out into the courtyard. 

It's half the height of the castle, a towering fifty feet. The width of its shoulders, just from a glance over, are about twenty feet; like the familiar goliaths in the Realm of Darkness, its wide torso tapers into a thin waist where the heart-shaped cavity spewing dark sludge sits. Its main set of arms drag against the ground like an ape as it hauls itself from the dining room; the second set wave idly, razor sharp talons at the end of long, elegant, spindly fingers. The third set look more like lances, primed against digitigrade, muscled legs with paws as its feet. It wears clunky, ill-fitting armor, a black and red emblem carved into each pauldron.

Most horrific is its amorphous head. Dozens and dozens of yellow eyes gleam from beneath a mass of thick purple tendrils waving off of its 'face'. The ground quakes as it finishes crawling from the ruins of the dining hall; Aqua hears distant screaming, both from the castle and from the city beyond the gates at her back.

So does the Heartless. It throws back its head with an inhuman screech and starts to set off, intent on devouring the populace below. Aqua throws a Firaga into its path and uses the rest of her magic to heal her wound, taking off at a sprint.

_ It has her! _ The Phantom screams by her side. Clenched in the hand it used to impale Aqua is Cinderella, struggling. Darkness tries to linger on her skin but she rebuffs it with concentrated bursts of light.

“Hold on!” Aqua shouts, “I'm coming!”

The Heartless swings its head toward her, bracing itself on its thickset arms, and howls. The cavity in its torso spews out liquid; the poisoned wine, Aqua recognizes instantly, leaping out of the way into a fluid cartwheel and taking off at a run, Master's Defender drawn and ready at her side. She leaps up onto one massive hand, her first priority to get Cinderella  _ out _ of that terrifying grasp. Hair-like tendrils whip up in her path to deter her, vanishing into smoke as Aqua cleaves through them easily. She leaps off and lands on the shoulder joint of the offending limb, jamming the teeth of Master's Defender into it.

“Aqua,” Cinderella sobs. Her gown is stained red from the remains of Aqua's blood slick on the Heartless’s claws. “Herman— _ Herman—” _

Aqua knows, but she doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to confirm it. Not yet.  _ No no no no— _

She screams her fury, twisting the Keyblade and wrenching it back. She hacks again, twisting in the air as energy builds inside of her. The arm crumbles into ash with one final down swing, and Aqua kicks off against a twisted rib to grab Cinderella from the air. She flies through the smoke the Heartless leaves behind, feels its gritty layers seep into her skin. Echoes of voices trickle into her ears as she weaves a wind to let them coast gently down, skidding against grass.

“Put up a barrier,” Aqua orders, setting Cinderella down. “Strongest light you can manage.  _ Do it. _ ”

“Be careful,” Cinderella husks, her eyes shining wet, makeup running. Both of her hands are clasped around the Wayfinder.

“Always.” Aqua hesitates. Part of her, a selfish part of her, wants to pull Cinderella close and take a kiss. The rest of her demands action. “Now!”

She spins on her heel and throws herself back into the fray as Cinderella encases herself in a thick barrier of pure light, impenetrable. The Heartless actually takes a full step back from its brilliance, and it would be an opening if the cavity didn't burst once more. This time the poison is thicker, a viscous sludge that steams purple. It splatters the ground, kills the grass, and pools; from it, more Heartless arrive.

They're the humanoid ones from the Realm of Darkness. Trickier, heartier, deadlier. The Heartless lets another wave out, then a final one; Aqua throws out Thundagas as she dances between the waves, saving one last spell to heal her in case she takes a hit. She cleaves and parries, flipping away from claw swipes. The magical reaction vibrates in her bones and she uses the resonance to call down a Thundaja spell from the generated reserves. It has the bonus of taking off another of the giant's arms, stunning it long enough for Aqua to leap up, holding Master's Defender in both hands, and tearing at its face.

With each strike, a pair of eyes fade. Aqua doesn't want to put a face to each set, knows that they were consumed, and it wasn't their fault; Gerrit and the council allowed their greed to overwhelm them, and it turned into an explosion that swallowed innocent people. Is his wife within this monstrosity? His children?

_ From above! _

Aqua brings up her barrier as the tendrils from above whip toward her. She's sent flying to the ground, and flips over to land, skidding, on her feet. She casts another Curaga, refreshing herself and hasting the recovery of her own magic.

It's definitely not the time for Terra to appear, so of course, he does.

_ Aqua _ , he says, calm as you please,  _ I don't know where you are. But you're with the light right now, we know that. You're safe. We've revived Eraqus _ —

What? Aqua stares at him.

_ —and we're going to go wake up Ven. Then we're gonna find you, Aqua, I swear it. We'll see you soon _ .

Master's Defender rattles in her hand, and then vanishes. Its true Master called out to it. Terra disappears soon after and Aqua is left to stare at the ground. A wave of darkness from the Heartless washes over her in that moment—Cinderella's screams echo in her ears as the wave forces her down, flooding her mouth, her eyes, her nose.

Too late, she fumbles to throw up her barrier. It repels the bulk of the wave, but Aqua stands up, saturated and choking on the putrid taste. She calls for Master's Defender, desperately so, and finds it doesn't respond. For the first time in years, she thinks of Stormfall and calls.

It responds. It responds and so does her armor, Aqua can feel it—but they're locked behind something. Something keeping them trapped. They want to get to her, but they just...can't.

“Oh, fuck,” Aqua breathes.

Instinct—hyper-tuned, now that her heart and body are still dripping darkness—has her leaping away. She slings a Firaga with her hands, but her power and accuracy suffer. It leaves her clothes and hands singed. She jumps back and gestures hard, summoning an Aeroga to wrap up the humanoid shadows once more. The Thundara she snaps into use is weak, barely vanquishing any of them, but without a focus it is the most Aqua can do.

She races to think of a solution. She has no access to any kind of weapon outside of sticks and stones, and that passes through Heartless without truly hurting them. She's running out of magic, and her spells have to be weak or she risks injuring herself with them. There's not enough time to tune and craft an entirely new focus with a horde of Heartless and their giant leader spawning more of them, taking heavy swipes at her in between.

She can feel Spellweaver's change just out of the grasp of her heart. But that only lasts so long; she can't tap into it for the entire fight, and that doesn't solve the problem of her weaponless state.

**_Embrace me_ ** , the Phantom commands. The demon whispering in her ear, the devil with his contract.  **_You know what it means, you know what I can bring. We were born in the Light, but the Darkness forged us. It made us strong. It made...you...strong_ ** .

How could she ever face anyone again, if she tapped into that power? If Terra is alive— _ he's alive? Eraqus is alive? Ven... _ —how could she ever face  _ any _ of them again? What's more, can she even control this?

What if she's lost? 

Aqua doesn't want to be lost again. She wouldn't be able to stand it, trapped and lonely and forgotten. She looks over the battlefield, at the bright beacon of Cinderella's barrier. At the terrified queen, then to the shining city she guards, and then back to the castle she spent all those months in. The castle she’s spent four months away from, letting this fester.

She thinks about Herman, who had no choice. Gregory, who died fighting for the home he loved. All the servants who might suffer even now, depending on how successful the coup is. And, really, it becomes no choice at all.

Aqua lets her body relax, staring up at the Heartless.  _ So be it. _

The Phantom is consumed in shadow, gold eyes blazing bright. Aqua takes a last breath of air, and lets the darkness swallow her whole.


	14. This Body (Paint It Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling on strange extremities / To run after a light that keeps on dimming / But these bones will only brittle and decay / While the space between my body and my mind keeps caving
> 
> (I look inside myself and see my heart is black / I see my red door, I must have it painted black / Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts / It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black)

The Heartless converge on Aqua as she stands still, piling on top of her. There's dozens of them, forty or fifty at the least, and for some reason Aqua's Keyblade isn't out. It vanished, just before she was pulled under the first waves; she'd continued to fight with magic, but then she'd just—stopped. And if that weren't frightening enough, Cinderella had watched Aqua's Phantom turn wholly black, before merging with the physical being.

Cinderella screams as she sinks to her knees. Her barrier of light pulses in staccato with her own breaking heart. She covers her mouth, sobbing into her gloved palm, wishing with all her might that there comes a change—and she feels it. The air throbs with heat. The smell of burnt sugar floods her nose as a pillar of darkness bursts from the pile of writhing bodies where Aqua was tackled. Crimson lightning and cyan-blue fire spark from the pit of it, and then a wave of purple-black ice washes outwards; the wave splits in half long before it gets to Cinderella and her barrier, openly parting for her. It crashes against her barrier and evaporates; the Heartless, in the meanwhile, are destroyed, the legs and main fists of the massive conglomerate beast frozen solid.

The smoke of the pillar dies down. Reveals what Cinderella has already felt.

Aqua stands there, an aura of bright purple marking her silhouette. Her Phantom had worn the same garments from thirteen years ago; now Aqua wears shredded, pitch black remnants of it while a mantle of shadow hugs her body like a lover. The bits of armor at her arms and ankles gleam just as dull as Barkley's swords did.

She’s beautiful. She’s terrifying. Cinderella is as repulsed as she is enticed; Light and Darkness cannot help but balance the other, and Aqua’s shade is the darkest of all. 

The few scattered Heartless that still remain lope forward, antenna twitching. They’re shaped in the mimicry of humanity, hunched over themselves and built with muscled limbs. Disproportionate hands tipped in claws reach up, as one Heartless touches Aqua’s hand. Not to hurt, Cinderella realizes with what might be disgust, but in  _ awe _ . She shudders when Aqua’s head slowly swings down, when Aqua’s hand comes to stroke over the Heartless’s head, petting it like a favored pet. 

Then, Aqua’s hand closes into a fist and the Heartless crumbles to dust beneath her touch, the dark mist of its body sinking into her skin. Her laughter, throat deep and drenched in malice, send chills racing up and down Cinderella’s spine.

The giant Heartless tugs uselessly with its trapped arms before it lets out a deep groan and thrusts its abdomen forward. Another dark wave of liquid bursts in a flood, this time nothing but poison—and Aqua simply vanishes in a swirl of purple light. She reappears at the center of the cavity, buried deep as hissing liquid washes over her skin. Then she goes  _ inside _ of it, burrowing with her claws—the Heartless groans again, a gurgle of what could be pain, writhing in place as it struggles against the ice, the remaining arms scrambling at its torso in vain.

Aqua claws her way out from its back in an explosion of steam and cyan fire, spinning around to lob an orb of lilac magic from where she came. She hasn’t stopped laughing.

She lands on its crooked spine; then she's crawling up, hands hooked in the tendrils on top of its head as she uses them to swing around to its amorphous face. Aqua uses her fists and claws at the eyes there, burrowing farther and farther while the great behemoth flails uselessly. Chunks of flesh fly as it bucks and weaves, screeching like a demon.

The ice is so thick that it doesn't even crack.

Finally it manages to shake Aqua off enough to have her in free fall, a sickle-shaped arm lashing out and piercing her through again. Cinderella screams; she hears Aqua’s snickering increase, and Aqua’s body breaks apart like a ghost. Two more images of Aqua appear on either side of the arm, tearing through and letting it slip away as smoke on the wind.

She uses magic, next. Enormous fireballs, storms of lightning, a riot of ice; they smash and slam into the Heartless. Aqua is never quite alone, summoning copies of herself to lash out with the same spell, multiplied. Two, three, four, Cinderella can't find a pattern. It's chaotic. It's barbaric.

The final blow comes with another maelstrom of ice and frost, crawling up the great Heartless until it is completely frozen over. With a deep, earth shattering crack, it splits in half, and then crumbles into pieces of black frost. 

There is no heart that is freed from the slain monstrosity. Gerrit and his family will never return to Kingdom Hearts. 

Aqua lands among her carnage, breathing heavily as her laughter finally comes to a stop. Her back is to Cinderella as the purple light surrounding her fades away, strips of Darkness peeling away from her skin to leave behind something else in its wake. She turns to face Cinderella, her breathing evening out.

Cinderella drops her barrier at once, hikes up her skirts, and starts to run. There is something horribly familiar about this. Her heart is surging forward, every instinct telling her to run to Aqua, her  _ heart  _ urging her forward. She remembers her dreams, her memories, the months of nightmares of losing Aqua to the water.  

When she gets closer, Cinderella wishes she hadn’t, stumbling to a stop out of shock. 

All traces of blue in Aqua’s hair have gone as white as snow, her eyes a more menacing, sickly yellow that glows brightly against darkened sclera. Most of the skin of her arms and legs have gone a murky navy blue, though her exposed hands are more purple, with the fingers a blood red. Cinderella isn't sure if those are claws, nails, or talons tipping the ends of them, but they send a foreboding shiver up her spine.

The piece of light in her heart screams:  _ danger. _ The rest of it twists in horror;  _ what have I done to you? _

A pool of dusky energy bubbles around Aqua's booted feet like water. With an expression Cinderella can't place, Aqua holds out a hand. 

It feels like the world holds its breath. Cinderella’s mind screams for her to run away, to turn back. Her heart begs her to move forward, to take that hand and roll the dice.

Aqua begins to sink, the pool swallowing her up to the knees, and Cinderella leaps forward to wrap her arms around the creature of shadow Aqua has become. They topple backwards, falling into darkness together, and Cinderella brings up the core of her light up against the sable hue of Aqua's heart. 

Aqua gasps, then yells; something clicks into place, so sharp and precise that it wrenches a cry out of Cinderella, too. Cinderella feels a tightness in her chest, a burning pain beyond description, and then a relief so strong it sends her into shock. Her arms go slack even as she and Aqua drift in the dark.

She floats up; Aqua sinks down. As they separate, a pair of golden, glowing chains leading back into their chests form link by link; after the thirteenth link an orb of light, grows, warps, and then finalizes into a new shape. It's a piece of...something...shaped like a sword, Cinderella thinks hazily. Part of one, at least; maybe a shard of it. It has a chunk of blade, with a bit of a vaguely familiar guard—the Kingdom Key Sora wields, Cinderella realizes.

_ Not enough, _ something primal, old, and familiar whispers. The air resonates with power, slumbering, unknown.  _ Twelve pieces of the dark remain. Six pieces of the light remain. Not ready. _

The chains and the light fade away, and Cinderella shudders at the unexpectedly hollow feeling—and then panics when she realizes herself once more, flails and manages to catch Aqua's hand before they drift too far away from each other.

“I'm not letting you go that easily!” Cinderella calls, her voice shaking. With great effort, she pulls through the thickness of the void and loops both arms around Aqua's waist again. There's a very, very faint, sluggish heartbeat to greet her when she presses her ear against the leather of Aqua's bodice, and Aqua doesn't react. “No matter where we end up, we'll go together.”

She has to wonder, though. Does Aqua intend to take her to the Realm of Darkness? Is—is this even  _ Aqua _ anymore?


	15. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there is light, / A shadow appears. / ... / For in our great sorrow / We learn what joy means.

Cinderella gets her answer as they begin to slow down. A very faint blue light shines up from below; she looks down and reflexively pulls Aqua's unresponsive body tighter to her own. It's Aqua's heart—her station—or what remains of it. It's cracked and faded and crumbling, overwrought with pitch colored vines with candy red thorns. The thorns tighten as Cinderella and Aqua land on the dusty stained glass. Aqua's image is warped, run through with the growths that plague her heart's pillar and the usual peaceful slumber is replaced with quiet agony; there are some places where veins of lapis lazuli have tenderly put once broken pieces back together, something that Cinderella remembers feeling.

Most telling, there's only one intact picture of the people in Aqua's life; Cinderella’s own face, peaceful and bright. Even then, 'intact' is a generous word; a deep splinter runs down the center of her own face, spiderweb cracks spreading. A tendril pierces up close to it, ready to strike down and shatter the picture.

And yet. It's about the only true source of Light here. As Cinderella watches in horror, it's starting to dim and flicker as chunks of the station tremble and then separate, drifting away into the dark.

“No, no  _ no _ !” Cinderella looks back to the woman in her arms. “Aqua, please! You have to find your strength!”

The Aqua in her arms sleeps, eyes half lidded, skin paling as the navy blue tones of skin start to grow in patches around her throat, her cheeks. Cinderella carefully unwinds one arm, then another. Aqua floats in place, hair drifting lazily around her face. It's tragic, that she still manages to be so beautiful, even as she...

Is she dying? Or becoming a Heartless herself?

Cinderella runs her hands through her hair. She swallows and gasps and kneels, tracing over the healed lines of Aqua's heart, laying a hand over her own picture. It crackles under her touch and Cinderelly yanks her hand away.

There are six other circles, shattered and broken, almost beyond repair. She thinks she can recognize some of Sora's spikes in one, but the others are ruined, smashed, or overgrown. In desperation, Cinderella reaches out with her own heart, remembering the one person she knows has a link to Aqua, even if they don't acknowledge it.

“Kairi!” she shouts. “ _ Kairi! _ ”

A sparkle in the horizon, and then a rush of warmth. Kairi's light finds her easily, and the voice reaches her.

_ Cindy? _ Kairi's voice echoes all around, breathless, confused, worried.  _ What's going on? What's...happening to me? _

“I n—I need your help! I need Sora's help, too! Please, you—” She chokes on a sob. “Do you remember the woman whose portrait exists in your heart?”

_ You mean Master Aqua? Yeah...we've been looking all over for her! She's the one who gave me the Keyblade. Wait, Cinderella, why are you _ —

“She's the friend. She's the friend I was telling you about, that night! Something's happened to her, her heart is—it's crumbling, I can't fix it all by myself.” Cinderella sobs. “I can't help her alone.”

_ You aren't alone _ , Kairi says. _ Neither of you are alone. You two just hang on, okay? I promise, I'll be back with Sora and Riku. _

“Please, hurry,” Cinderella begs as she feels Kairi’s presence leave. 

Cinderella does her best to push back the thorny growths with her light, but they only seem to tighten around the shambles of Aqua's heart out of spite. Fear of having those roots crush Aqua to bits stops her from interfering further, so she stays by Aqua's body instead. Cinderella traces her fingertips over Aqua's face, the proud line of her jaw, the slender curve of her throat. She's watched, certainly; Aqua's eyes never close, not even to blink.

“It's alright,” Cinderella finds herself whispering. “It's all going to be alright, you'll see. Oh, Aqua,” she sighs, tears spilling hot down her cheeks, “I'm  _ so sorry. _ ”

Aqua doesn't respond, but there might be a twitch that runs through her. She's not sure how long time passes before Cinderella hears the soft rush of an ocean’s wave, and Kairi's voice speaks out again.

_ Cinderella, I'm so sorry it took so long. We had to wake up Ventus. _

“Ventus?” Cinderella gasps. “He's not dead?!”

_ No, and neither is--you’ll see. Naminé's going to help with the chains of connection, and then we're going to deep dive. Is Master Aqua still...there? _

“Y-yes—we haven't left,” Cinderella answers. Her mind is in a hazy spin. “Kairi, I don't understand much of anything, I'm afraid! I just want her to be okay, please,  _ please _ , I need her to be—”

A pillar of light shines from above, bright and swirling. Cinderella grabs onto Aqua's waist and braces herself. The station shakes as the ghostly rattling of chains echoes around and around, shadowed; one by one, six figures descend from above.

She recognizes Sora first; he lands next to her picture, dressed in black and accents of red plaid. He's grown so much from the scrawny young boy who'd rescued her and the other princesses at Hollow Bastion, almost taller than her, if one wasn’t counting the riot of his hair. His welcoming smile is absent; instead he looks worried, tired, over-stressed. He takes a look around, a hand fisting in the fabric over his heart as if he shares in Aqua’s pain.

“Sora,” Cinderella croaks.

“Hey,” Sora greets softly. His voice is warm, careful. “That's Master Aqua?”

Cinderella grips Aqua a little tighter. “Y-yes.”

By then the second figure lands, in black and blue. His silver hair is cropped short, seafoam eyes widening at the state of Aqua's heart station.

“She's almost a Heartless,” is the first thing out of his mouth.

“Riku!” Sora scolds, voice harsh.

“She’s not going to get better if we don’t  _ acknowledge _ it, Sora. There’s still time,” Riku says. He looks over at Aqua and his face crumples a bit. “You remember her? She's the woman from the beach. She's the one who told you to look out for me.”

“Yeah,” Sora says, quietly. “I know.”

Kairi is the next to complete the dive, and her toes haven't so much as hit the glass before she's shoved Sora and Riku out of the way, coming to Cinderella's side. Cinderella finds herself wrapped in an awkward hug, Kairi pressing her face against her neck from the side and giving a shaking little breath. 

“I'm so sorry,” Kairi nearly whimpers. “Oh,  _ Cindy _ . I'm so, so sorry.” She pulls back, eyes wet, as she looks up toward Aqua and hesitatingly reaches out. She stops before making contact, as if nervous. “H-hey, Master Aqua...it's okay, we're here now. You're gonna be okay.”

Two men fall next; a tall brunette with streaks of silver at his temples and deep blue eyes, and a young man about Sora's age, strawberry blond like herself. The color scheme of black and plaid applies to them too; the taller man is accented with orange, whereas the boy is accented with green. Cinderella feels her heart skip a literal beat as she recognizes them, joyous relief swelling up in her throat and robbing her of breath.

“Terra,” Cinderella whispers. She sags, half supported by Kairi, her own fingers still curl. “And Ventus!”

“Cinderella—Aqua!” Ventus calls out.

Aqua gives a great jerk in Cinderella's arms. She gasps and looks up, to see Aqua's eyes have snapped open wider, slit pupils focused on Ventus.

“Aqua, you can hear us now, right?” Terra asks, stepping forward, hand outstretched. Neon yellow slides over in his direction, narrowing. Aqua makes no sound, but stares between the two of them cautiously. The station rumbles when the final figure lands, close to a dark tendril worming in Aqua's heart as her body coils with tension against Cinderella’s arm’s.

Cinderella doesn't recognize the man, but judging by his armor, his white robes, and the familiar Keyblade in his hand, she guesses that this is the Master Eraqus.

The Master looks around the station, his expression crumbling as his chin  _ trembles _ .

“ _ No _ . Oh, Aqua...What have you  _ done? _ ” he breathes.

Aqua’s pupils dilate, then sharpen into thin slits. Cinderella gasps as her arms close on each other as Aqua vanishes in a swirl of purple-black mist. When Aqua reappears she's swinging at Eraqus with sharp claws, shrieking with fury, the Master’s honed reflexes the only thing saving him from injury.

“ **_I've done everything I could!_ ** ” she screams, her claws missing his heart by mere inches. “ **_And you LEFT me!_ ** ”

“Aqua, stop!” Terra shouts. “We're here, now! You don't have to rely on the darkness anymore! We're here for you!”

Aqua changes course mid strike, then splits into six copies of herself, coming for Terra and Eraqus in kind. Their ghostly strikes all miss, swiping through cloth rather than skin, but Eraqus flinches as if this hurts him more, and Terra openly grimaces.

The fact that Aqua isn't using her magic is telling; with such little space left on the station, if she unleashed what she did against the Heartless, Cinderella doubts they'd be able to withstand it. She doubts that  _ Aqua _ would be able to stand it.

This isn't an attack to kill. This is…

This is a frightened, heartbroken girl lashing out.

“ **_I told you not to listen to him_ ** **,** ” Aqua raves in Terra’s face, baring her fangs— _ actual fangs— _ at him like a starved wolf. She grabs the lapels of his jacket and, to their collective shock,  _ lifts _ him up until only his toes graze the stained glass of the station.

“Aqua, release him!” Eraqus demands, dancing backwards from a snakestrike fast tendril whipping in his direction.

Aqua, of course, ignores her Master to howl, “ **_I TOLD you not to use the darkness! I knew you couldn’t handle it, but I tried to believe that you would withstand it and you DIDN’T! This is all YOUR fault!_ ** ”

**_“_ ** Aqua, stop it!” Ventus pleads. “This—this isn’t  _ you! _ ”

Ventus’s words actually get her to stop, lowering a shell shocked Terra back to his feet. 

**_“You,_ ** ” Aqua snarls as she rounds on Ventus. The phantoms striking for Eraqus vanish. Aqua twitches like something wants to escape out of her skin, her nostrils flared. 

“ **_All you had to do_ ** ,” Aqua starts, her voice silky and sonorous like thunder at once, lips curled back over her teeth as she stalks forward, “ **_was go home. That's it. I don't think that's such an AWFUL thing to ask, right?_ ** ”

“You're right,” Ventus says, breaking at the end. “Aqua... _ please, don’t… _ ”

Ventus takes a step toward her. Aqua shimmers into pieces, copies pacing around him like a caged animal. He reaches out to one, only to have the image of Aqua dissolve into mist; Cinderella flinches when a soft, broken little sound escapes from him.

Ventus frantically reaches out again and again, calling Aqua’s name, not giving up even as Eraqus and Terra turn their gazes away.

Out of shame? Because they can’t handle what Aqua has become? Cinderella can’t say.

Where the real Aqua is, even Cinderella can't say. Kairi pushes herself in front of Cinderella, bringing her Light to the surface of her skin like a living shield. Riku looks torn between summoning his Keyblade to fight and letting events continue onward—to see if they’d  _ ever _ get better, or if Aqua is too far gone—and Sora openly cries, silent, the grip on his shirt so tight the white bones of his knuckles press against his skin.

As for Cinderella, she can only watch the trainwreck as an outsider, knowing there's so much hurt around and inside and there's nothing she can do to stop it.

Finally, Ventus stops when he realizes that Aqua won’t let herself be found. “I’m sorry,” Ventus manages. “Aqua, I should never have said you were awful. You were just scared. You were as scared as the rest of us. Maybe—maybe you were the one that was the  _ most _ scared...”

“I should have trusted you,” Terra admits in a close second as Aqua’s copies come to a halt. “I shouldn't have let my own jealousy and bitterness come between us. You were always there for me when I needed you; I should have done the same.”

“And I,” Eraqus begins, an audible tremble in his words, “should never have made you shadow either of them. I never should have put you in the position I did, not without help, or security. I should have ended Xehanort before he had the chance to spread his influence.”

One by one the ghosts vanish. The real Aqua stands in the center of her station, breathing harshly. 

“I beg for your forgiveness,” Eraqus rasps. He goes to his knees and bows his head. “My poor girl. I  _ beg _ .”

There is silence. Then;

“You're too late,” Aqua breathes. She sounds miserable, shaken. “Even if you healed this ruined heart, I  _ can't _ turn back. You can halt it, but I'll never be human. The darkness is—I'm part of it, now. The boy was right. Almost a Heartless, not quite. Almost a human, but  _ not quite _ . I'm a  _ monster _ .”

She looks toward Cinderella, eyes shining with her despair, her shame. Cinderella feels tears of her own start to well, and part of her wants nothing more than to cross the distance, to comfort and mend. And, frankly, she wants to shove away the men who made Aqua bear it all on her own; Aqua deserves to hear their apologies, but they don't deserve any instant forgiveness.

Neither does Cinderella, for that matter.

“Nothing,” Eraqus thunders as he rises to his feet, his eyes glassy, “could make me love my daughter any less. Darkness or light—I was a fool to be blinded by my own prejudice. I forced them on all of you, once. Know this now; nothing you are will change your place in my heart.”

There's a slow rasp; as if time is in reverse, the station begins to heal. Eraqus's picture reforms—scarred, and speared with that gleaming ore vein, but there—and Aqua turns to face them fully, nervously looking towards Ventus, towards Terra. 

There is a pause. And then the two boys have swarmed her on either side, wrapping her up in their arms. Ventus practically buries himself against Aqua, while Terra wraps his big arms around the both of them, his body to Aqua’s back. Terra rocks them side to side as Ventus clings, one fist in Terra’s jacket and the other on Aqua’s sleeve, sobbing openly into her neck; Aqua looks shell shocked, before she gives an instinctive, animal struggle against them, like a cat cornered into affection.

After a moment, she seems to process what’s happening, at least in theory. Aqua slackens into their embrace, her expression pained. Cinderella watches their pictures come back, too. A vine wriggles out of the way to let the station heal further, shards of glass stitched with darkness.

Riku relaxes after a moment, looking over toward Sora who sniffles loudly, swiping at his nose with his arm and laughing wetly. Riku approaches Aqua and the boys, Sora close behind.

“I know a thing or two about Darkness. I could teach you and Terra how to keep control without fear, if you'd like,” Riku begins gently, as he keeps his pace slow and steady. He kneels down, Sora joining him. “Do you remember me, by the way?”

“The boys...from the island.” Aqua looks them over, her eyes lingering on Sora. “You...you're the one Ansem the Wise talked about. I remember him.”

“And I remember you,” Sora grins. “You told me to keep Riku on the right path. Took a while, but I managed it! Do I get a gold star, Master Aqua?”

She says nothing to that, but more vines are brushed aside, and Sora and Riku's faces appear on the station again. Kairi hesitates before she lets her Light finally fade, looking to Cinderella over her shoulder. After Cinderella gives her a nod, she approaches at last, taking off the pendant around her neck. It shines brighter as Kairi takes one of Aqua's hands, laying it in her palm. Aqua stares down at the necklace with deep trepidation, fingers twitching against Kairi’s gentle grip.

“I'm Kairi,” she introduces herself. “A long time ago, you gave me two gifts to protect me. The first was the spell on this necklace. It's made sure that no matter how much of a bind I get into, I'll always find a way back safe. I want you to have it now, okay? We can protect you, this time.”

Aqua stares at her. “What...was the second?”

Kairi smiles, and flicks out her wrist. Her own Keyblade shimmers to life, flower petals drifting to the floor before fading into light.

“You're my Master,” Kairi says simply. “You passed the Keyblade onto me. By accident, sure, but still...you helped save me loads of times. I'd love to learn some tricks with magic, if you're okay with it. My mentor Merlin says you're kind of a specialist.”

A heavy pulse runs through the station, echoing into the air. And after that, it looks like Aqua’s heart is almost back to normal. Aqua's image is still in distress, but that will take time to heal. The first step happens before Cinderella’s eyes. Slowly it morphs to match how Aqua looks now, with her white hair and gold eyes, her dark and tattered outfit and pitch-kissed skin. 

Cinderella's own portrait is still fractured but—now that Aqua has everyone else with her—

_ —Oh. _

Cinderella swallows. Surely, they will take Aqua away with them. Surely. Their grand adventures across the worlds and against Xehanort—well, it's no place for one of his targets. And surely Aqua's family will be able to heal her heart more than Cinderella ever could—

“Let me go,” Aqua asks quietly.

She stands from the shared embrace. Steps around the young Keyblade wielders and stops before Cinderella. She slowly lifts one hand, stares down at it. She looks ashamed; brave; terrified. Those fingers and wicked sharp claws tremble as they near Cinderella's face. In return, greedy for what might be the last time they ever see the other— _ oh, _ the sting of that thought—Cinderella wastes no time in taking Aqua’s between her own, and leads it to her cheek. 

Aqua draws in a sharp, startled breath; Cinderella rests the weight of her head against Aqua's palm trustingly.

She isn’t sure what she’s expecting. It isn’t what Aqua asks next.

“Would you let me stay with you?” Aqua whispers. “Even...like this?”

A startled puff of air escapes Cinderella’s lips. She swallows hard, turning her head to press a careful kiss against Aqua’s hand. She closes her eyes for a moment, to absorb the tender question, the vulnerability inherent. 

“Of course I would, Aqua,” Cinderella replies. “Even after what I did...You came back. You came back when I needed you the most.”

“I couldn't save Herman,” Aqua says weakly. Tears bud at the corners of her eyes. “Or Gregory. Or Miss Maisie.”

“I know,” Cinderella gasps, laying one hand carefully over the base of Aqua's neck. Aqua backs off a little, stares down at the hand as it makes contact, but doesn't try to get away or swipe it off. “I know, and I don't blame you.”

“I  _ left.” _ Aqua growls it. “I left you vulnerable. I left you all vulnerable.”

“After what I  _ did _ to you? Aqua, you needed to leave after that, so you did. And that's—it's okay,” Cinderella shakes her head. “I will never hold someone else's life over your head. Gerrit and his men were the ones who betrayed the kingdom. Pendlebrooke poisoned the wine. The council helped them to do it. It's  _ not your fault. _ ”

Aqua is silent for a while. Then she lifts her hand and touches the Wayfinder around Cinderella's neck, lifting the pendant off of Cinderella’s clavicle and stares down at it.

“Where did you find this?” Aqua asks her quietly.

“I think it found me, really. I had a dream. About it, about you. I—” Cinderella lowers her voice so that only Aqua can hear it, wanting to keep this secret, if only between them, “I wanted to see you again so, so badly.”

Aqua shivers at the admission, then drops the charm. Cups it so that it presses against Cinderella's heart.

“Happy birthday,” she says after a moment, and gives Cinderella a smile that sits more like an awkward grimace. 

Cinderella bursts into laughter, wet and choked and maybe just a little hysterical, and she wraps both arms around Aqua's neck to embrace her tightly. She feels weighted, connected, heavy with emotion as Aqua’s arms slowly come around her own waist. In the corner of her eye, Cinderella watches as the fracture in her image—well, it still stays the way it is. But there’s a vine carefully curled around it, almost to mimic Aqua’s own embrace or to position itself in a better position to strike.

Threat or not, that will just have to do.

Suddenly, a girl's voice rings out in the ether around them.

_ I'm really sorry, everyone, but you should really get back. Roxas and Lea are starting to panic, and we still have to find Xion. _

“Roger that, babe!” Kairi calls out brazenly, sounding close to tears herself.

“You've got us chained, Naminé?” Sora adds.

_ Yes. I've helped to strengthen the preexisting bonds between Master Aqua and her friends, and helped with the ones you three made a long time ago. And you, as well, Cinderella. _

“Thank you,” Cinderella calls up, feeling Aqua cling to her a little tighter. 

_ Of course, _ the voice, Naminé, says.  _ Now I'm going to start pulling you back one by one. I'm excited to meet you, Master Aqua. _

“See you when you wake up!” Sora salutes, his trademark grin back in place, brighter than ever. One by one the others vanish from Aqua's heart until they are momentarily alone. Cinderella looks around her at the station; the vines still remain, but fenced around the edges of the pillar, as if to guard Aqua from falling over into the sea below. It's telling that the thorns face outward, rather than inward. 

A Darkness that protects, rather than devours.

“It's still beautiful,” Cinderella says quietly. Aqua strokes over the apple of her cheek with a thumb, careful, and draws her attention back. Her breath catches in her throat when her eyes meet Aqua's; the hunger staring back through those bright eyes makes her nervous, but not in fear.  _ Never _ fear, never again. 

“You're beautiful,” Aqua tells her. “I don't deserve to be close to you. I don't deserve your light.”

She's tugged closer as Aqua wraps an arm around her waist. Pressed chest to chest, Aqua's heartbeat—still slower than a human's, but powerful to shake Cinderella's ribs—curls inside of her lungs.

“But I will take,” Aqua whispers,  _ “everything _ you willingly give.”

Cinderella feels a tug on her heart, and then the slow fizzing fade of white, just as Aqua dips her head down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So pardon the dust  
> While this all settles in.  
> With a broken heart,  
> Transformation begins.


	16. Animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I won't be denied by you / the Animal inside of you / ... / Take a bite of my heart tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ......( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)???

Cinderella peels open her eyes, wincing at the brightness of the sun parting through her curtains. Her face is turned She can hear voices around her, familiar and bright. Kairi she can definitely recognize. There's at least one other person in the room, with a deeper register. The words are hard to make out, but the overall tones aren't too worried. Maybe a little demanding, to each other, but affectionate. 

“—ld you, she's just fine,” Kairi's voice comes in low, teasing, and unconcerned. “Sheesh! How many times do I have to tell you that before  _ you  _ get it memorized, genius?”

“Well,  _ excuse _ me, princess!” a stranger growls playfully. “It's not like I'm an expert on heart sleeping situation...things. It just doesn't seem natural for her body to be good after sleeping for so long. What about bed sores? What about cramps?”

“Oh, relax. _I_ was just a heart once, my body was all coma'd out, and I turned out great. I think I know a little more about it than you.”

“Alright, but what if she has to eat? Would she starve? How would she even— _ y’know _ . Wait, how did  _ you _ even—”

“ _ Uuuugh _ , Lea, you gross motherfu—”

“ _ Alright _ ,” Cinderella rasps, closing her eyes and raising a hand up and hearing two twin shouts of surprise. “Alright. No more of  _ that _ talk, please? It's inappropriate.”

She opens her eyes again, head turning away from the sunlight. She can see Kairi sitting at the bedside, joined by a taller gentleman—Cinderella recognizes the look of him from his portrait on Kairi's station. She draws up the sheets to her chin. She's embarrassed, certainly, of a strange man in her bedroom, but not fearful. Kairi would not have let him near if he meant ill.

“What's going on?” Cinderella asks, coughing a little after. Her mouth feels dried out, parched; Kairi hands her a cup filled with water, and Cinderella gratefully gulps it down. She sits up, relieved to see herself in a nice, modest nightgown, and lets Kairi brace her back with the other pillows. “What's happening?”

“After you reached out to me,—and, uh,” Kairi smiles around a wince, “—long story  _ very _ short, after we revived a few people—I grabbed the guys and we made it to your world as fast as we could. Aqua was already gone, but you and your heart were in stasis. You know how time doesn’t pass the same, world to world?”

“Yes,” Cinderella says softly. “Or, well, somewhat.”

“You were already out for few days before we landed. We managed to explain everything to your, uh, remaining staff, so your attendants brought us to where you were.”

“Roxas and I acted as security while Naminé guided the dive,” the man next to Kairi informs. Compared to his earlier, casual... _ disregard _ for manners, he almost seems sedate, lethargic. There’s a laziness to his posture that seems out of place for someone acting as ‘security’. “Also, good morning. Name's Lea. Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Cinderella says in a small voice, drawing the sheets a touch higher.

“I'm gonna give you girls some privacy,” Lea says, easily reading the room. He saunters out of the door; Cinderella straightens a little more, letting the covers pool around her stomach as soon as they're alone.

“Where is she?” Cinderella asks sharply. “Where's Aqua?”

“I...well...it's complicated,” Kairi admits after a moment. “Naminé says she's still here, in the Realm of Light, and definitely on this world. Somewhere. But according to your people, she wasn't around when they found your body, either.”

Silence falls between them. Kairi wrings her fingers.

“It probably has something to do with her um. Transformation.” Kairi frowns. “We've never really dealt with anything quite like this, not to this degree. I’ve...I mean, Sora was a Heartless once, but like,  _ completely. _ I was able to restore him. Master Aqua is...pretty unique. Master Eraqus is scouring the books and lore that’s been salvaged from restoring his world, obviously, and Sora and Riku both set out to figure out what they can too.”

Cinderella leans forward. “Terra and Ven?”

Kairi looks relieved to have a change of topic to something better, at least. “They're planning on staying here for right now. The two of them want to be the ones to find Master Aqua, all things considered.”

“That's...good,” Cinderella says at length. She’s a little ashamed to feel a bit of jealousy—because Aqua would  _ much _ prefer her boys over Cinderella seeking her out, but, it feels wrong for anyone else to bring Aqua home. “How did you all manage to  _ stay _ here, in the castle?”

“I might've pulled the 'visiting foreign royalty' card before Charming came back,” Kairi admits with a sheepish grin. “Told them I was a long lost sister. Redheads unite! Made me regent for like three days, it was wild.” Her grin fades soon after, and very seriously, Kairi tells her, “You've been out for almost three weeks, Cindy. You gave us a real scare.”

“...He's back? Charming?” Cinderella frowns. “What about the war?”

“Erm. Left his war council back on the front lines, from what I understand. The minute he got news the castle had been attacked and foreign nobility was kicking up feet in his castle, he got on his horse and rode back here alone. Once he realized it was just Keyblade wielders...”

“I see.” Cinderella folds her hands over her lap. She's not sure how to feel about the news. She wants Aqua.

“...Cindy?” Kairi gently prods her. “Did something happen?”

“It’s…” Cinderella swallows hard.  _ Did something happen _ ; what a question. What didn’t happen, really? 

“If it’s none of my business,” Kairi leads, a strange sort of maturity in the way she speaks, “then let me know to back off. Are you gonna be okay on your own?”

“Well—” Cinderella considers the request, and considers herself. 

_ Will _ she be okay?

She’ll have to talk to Charming. See him. Apparently it’s been three weeks since that night, but Cinderella remembers reading his mistress’s words and the mockery of her traumas like they happened just last night. After dealing with everything alone for four months, with help  _ right here _ …

“I...actually.” Cinderella’s voice shakes. Kairi notices, reaches out to lay a hand over the two clenching tight in the sheets piled in her lap. “...I’d like to speak to my husband. And I need a bit of help.”

“...You got it,” Kairi says quietly, giving Cinderella’s hand a pat. “I’m with you.”

Cinderella gives Kairi a genuine smile, already pulling back the covers. Much like the last time her heart had been forced into slumber, she finds her body, aside from some grogginess, responding perfectly. She's not even hungry, though that will no doubt change once she gets her day started in earnest. “Would you mind waiting outside?”

“Sure thing,” Kairi says. “Consider me and Lea your new, elite guard!”

“Ha! I don’t think I’ll be needing that much longer.” Cinderella opens her arms and Kairi gives her a tight, warm hug. It feels like the kind of a hug a younger sister would give her, had she lived a much different life. She squeezes extra hard, hears Kairi huff a laugh into her shoulder, and then they part.

Kairi leaves the room after, and Cinderella can hear soft, playful ribbing from the two Keyblade wielders from outside. 

Cinderella stands from the bed after a moment more, running fingers through her hair. It snags with a few tangles and she winces, before making her mind. She pours cold water from the heavy pitcher into a bowl and washes herself quickly, pulling on her old and familiar frock and apron, toeing into a pair of flats.

The next thing she does is searches for Charming's letter. Somehow, even after, apparently, weeks have passed, she finds the dress she wore on her birthday draped over a partition, mostly untouched. She searches through the folds and finds the crumbled envelope; the parchment inside is mostly untouched, a few smudges here and there to blend a word or two, but nothing of the damning evidence. Perfect; she'll need it if she's to confront Charming at all. Cinderella tucks it into her apron's pocket and draws a blue ribbon from the dresser. Pinching it between her teeth, she sits in front of her mirror to comb her hair.

She looks nice. Pretty, even. Herman's blood has been tenderly washed from her face and obviously the coup was successfully repelled if she's still alive. Cinderella swallows hard and brushes her hair quickly, tying it back soon after. The sky grows overcast as she finishes her preparations, the low rumble of thunder across the horizon signifying imminent rain. She stands and quickly and opens her doors; Kairi and her friend, Lea stand across the way, mimicking the other with crossed arms and a foot braced against the wall. 

Lea scrambles as soon as he registers Cinderella standing there. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he greets, frowning a little as he looks over his shoulder to check for a scuff mark on the castle wall. “Wait, am I allowed to call other Princesses that? I mean, y’know, legally?”

“You’ve never called  _ me _ that,” Kairi says. With far more tact, she straightens up and looks for the same. 

“I got other names for you. Firecracker, for starters. Pain in my Aaaaa—” Lea’s green eyes snap in Cinderella’s direction. “—Ah...apples.”

“Pain in your apples, hm,” Cinderella says at length. “Kairi, I’m disappointed in you, dear. I thought you would’ve been a pain in his ass.”

As Lea chokes on a sputter and a laugh, mixed together, Kairi claps her hand against Cinderella’s. Someone had to teach the girl the proper way to vent frustrations, verbally, and Cinderella was— _ is? _ —a scullery maid first and foremost. How else was she supposed to haggle for Tremaine’s expensive tastes at the docks without a ‘polite’ tongue?

“So,” Kairi sighs, “are we just escorting you to your husband? Do you want us  _ there _ -there, or moral-support-there?”

“Or intimidating-support-there,” Lea adds as the three of them begin to walk down the hall. “I’ve got a mean scary face, when I put my mind to it. Gonna shake the dust off my assassination grimace.”

“And if that doesn’t work, you could hire him as a jester.”

“Oh,  _ ha ha _ .”

They come to the main landing that opens toward the staircase, when Cinderella finally hears the voices of others.

“Sorry, uh, Mr. Kingliness,” Ventus says, shaking his head so hard his spikes wave. “It's really important to the balance of the worlds and Light and Dark that you don't disturb Cinderella right now.”

“Her heart is recovering from a prolonged dive,” Terra adds in, his frame taking up more than half of the stair’s top. “Right now, rest and relaxation is what she needs and you hovering isn't going to give her that.”

“But she's my  _ wife! _ ” Charming argues. It sounds like even his patience has its limit—which is saying something, considering it only took roughly four months to cheat on her. “How would you feel if  _ your  _ wives were—”

“Not into women, thanks,” Terra says dryly.

“I'm not really looking for a relationship?” Ventus adds. “First off, kinda rude to assume we're married at all, that's weird. Second, that doesn't change anything, sorry, sir. I can't just let you pass through—”

“It's alright,” Cinderella says, raising her voice to be heard. “I'm awake and I feel fine. Besides, I really would like to  _ speak _ with my husband.”

(From the corner of her eyes, she sees Kairi go pale and mouth  _ oh, shit _ .)

Her heart aches. When she first read the letter Charming sent her, she'd been humiliated and brought to her lowest. Then, when Aqua had been hurt, she'd been beaten down lower still until bedrock had scraped her knees. Now, with Aqua's heart mended—in an unexpected way, certainly—and Aqua vanished somewhere, Cinderella has the time to feel, dare she say it, petty. Impatient, herself. After all of the guilt she forced herself to feel for thinking of another person in such regard, of holding herself back even after she had fallen out of love—well.

She doesn't like being a bitter person. She doesn't consider herself cruel. But Cinderella will be big enough to admit this; will she expose Charming's infidelity in front of the Keyblade wielders, and the minor army of attendants lingering in the eaves to collect gossip? After everything?

Oh, absolutely. Let  _ him _ deal with the fallout of his choices. Let  _ him _ know how much she's been hurt. She hopes it hurts him back.

“Let him through, please,” Cinderella says. Terra and Ventus share a look, then step aside. Charming runs through the gap they provided.

“Cinderella!” he calls, genuine relief in his voice, which makes her feel only a little guilty for what she's to put him through next. “I'm so happy to see—”

She holds up a hand. Her barrier comes up, one to keep out anyone with a stitch of Darkness in their hearts; Charming bounces off of it with a grunt of surprise, reeling backwards before landing on his rump.

“Big oof,” Lea drawls. Cinderella lowers the barrier once Charming's gotten the message.

“Not another step,” Cinderella says softly. “Do you understand me?”

“What are you doing,” Charming asks, his eyes wide.

“I'm touched you worried about me, Charming.” Cinderella folds her hands in front of her, staring him down. “Truly. That shows you are a good man at heart.”

“Cinderella,” he starts, a bit hoarse, “I don't know what's going on.”

“When were you going to tell me about your mistress, Charming?” she asks without preamble. 

The temperature rackets up a few degrees as the hall goes dead silent, and a brief glance over her shoulder shows that Lea’s gone as far as to summon his Keyblade, letting the guard of it dangle off of his shoulder. The blade looks and, frankly, feels like a flickering flame; his expression is blank compared to Kairi’s immediate glare. Terra and Ventus, behind Charming, don’t look too  _ enthused _ by the revelation either.

Beneath the weight of four angry glares, Charming wilts. “Wh—ah, my—I beg your  _ pardon _ ?”

“You're a very smart man, Charming,” Cinderella says blandly, ignoring Kairi’s snort. “Or, at the very least, I thought you were. Tell me, did you read the letter at all after she'd finished writing it down for you?”

“Cinderella,” he tries, a hand reaching for her as he comes to stand. She raises her barrier again, ready to give him a stronger sting this time if he dares to push her; he hesitates, then lowers his hand. Charming clears his throat, eyes darting at the sound of servants whispering. “May we talk about this in private?”

Cinderella lifts her chin. Sharpens her eyes like she remembers Tremaine doing so long ago. “No. I don't think so.”

He's deflecting, defensive, paranoid. Charming looks so much like a stranger to her, and Cinderella wonders how that can happen so fast, in only a few short months. It makes her wonder if, perhaps, Charming has betrayed her as such in the past. If his vows of fidelity were forgotten on lonely nights. She'd like to say no, that this comes out of nowhere, that it blindsides her—and it does—but to have the woman stay long enough after such a tryst to write a letter? To  _ write it for him _ ? 

Well. She isn’t sure what to think of all that.

“I want to hear you confirm or deny it, Charming,” Cinderella says. “That's all. I'll let you decide what you think I deserve to hear.”

Kairi crackles her knuckles, one fist rubbing hard in the palm of her other hand.

Charming inhales. Exhales like Cinderella has struck him. 

He looks fairly handsome, in an abstract way; his shirt pressed, trousers clean, skin clear. He looks healthy. Strong. But there's no attraction to him, no need to run her fingers over his face, no deep desire to wrap herself up in him and let herself melt. There hasn't been for a long, long time. Maybe, in the long run, the attraction had never been there.

Maybe she'd seen him as someone to help her out of Tremaine's house, like a Fairy Godmother more than a husband.

“I didn't read the letter,” Charming says, finally, guilt dripping off of every word.

Cinderella produces the letter, envelope and all, and tosses it to his feet with a flick of her wrist. Feeling free, Cinderella yanks the ring off of her finger along with it, listens to the high noise it makes as it hits the ground. And, God, does it feel good. It feels  _ good _ to seize upon what she wants, how she wants, to say  _ no _ and mean it.

“You hurt me,” Cinderella says. “Your betrayal, and the fact that you would have hid it from me...it destroys me. It really, really does, Charming.” She steps back, away from a window so that the shadow of the frame falls over her completely. Kairi and Lea flank her on either side, staunch allies. “I can't stay here, anymore. I love the people here, and I love this kingdom, and this land...but I can't stay here. Not after all of the hurt.”

“Cinderella,” he rasps. “Please, wait. It—it was just a mistake. I wasn't myself. I—there was wine, and I missed you terribly, and I—”

“And I would have accepted that, had you told me at once. I wouldn't have been happy. I still would have been just as hurt, but I would have stayed. But I'm not an idiot, you know.” Cinderella smiles without meaning it. “And enjoying your mistress for a week does not constitute a 'mistake' that can be explained with wine. Thank you, Charming, for everything—truly. You helped me out of a miserable situation, and chose to love me. That was a true rarity. It helped me believe again.”

She tilts her head up to the window, at the sun hiding behind the clouds. It looks like gentle shower is on the way; or maybe it's a thunderstorm in hiding. Who knows?

“Terra,” Cinderella speaks, “Ven?”

“What do you need, Cinderella?” Terra asks, striding forward. He passes Charming without a look to the now silent, heartbroken king.

“When Aqua is found, will she be welcome among your...people?”

Ventus jogs to join them, shooting Charming a disappointed shake of the head before answering. “Yeah. Once we helped heal her heart, we told Master Yen Sid everything. He and King Mickey want her to know that she's welcome at the tower.”

“And you, too,” Kairi says to Cinderella. “You can come with us.”

“I’d be happy to open a Corridor for you, lady,” Lea says. “Say the word.”

The charm against her neck is bright and warm. Cinderella can't help but feel herself share in that warmth, that gentle light that shines ever on. Somewhere, in this world, Aqua...Aqua’s out there. Maybe waiting for her, if Cinderella dares to think of it like that.

With a deep breath, she reaches out and wraps Terra in a hug first, squeezing, then draws in Ventus. Pulling back, Cinderella feels tears in her eyes, and wipes them away before they fall, unable to stop her smile.

“I'm so happy that you're both okay,” Cinderella says, her voice wavering. “I'll find her. That's my promise to the both of you. And when I do, I'll tell her to go home to you. You all need to prepare for Xehanort, right?”

“We'll see you there,” Terra says softly.

“Terra—!”

“Ven,” Terra begins, gently, “maybe  _ we’re _ the reason Aqua’s staying away. Maybe she’s...just not ready to see us, yet.”

Ventus bites his lip, looks down. Breathes in and out, nearly trembling beneath Terra’s steadying hand on his shoulder. Finally, he lifts his head and digs into a pocket by his waist, drawing out a green charm similar to the pendant hanging from Cinderella’s neck. 

“Give her this,” Ventus says, his voice thick. “It’s—” He sniffs, tears welling up, “It’s my special lucky charm. So, you two have to bring it back to me. Okay?”

“I promise,” Cinderella says. “Ven, I promise.”

Then they're walking out again; Terra gives Charming a brutal looking scowl behind his back, fists clenched. Ventus taps on his arm as they start to descend the stairs, and Terra grumbles wordlessly. After a moment the servants shuffling in the sidelines take their own cues to slowly make their way down the stairs as well. Their whispers, while Cinderella can't make them out, are telling enough if they have the bravery to do so in the presence of their king.

“You two should go,” Cinderella says to Kairi and Lea. “I’ll be okay.”

“You’re the boss, boss,” Lea says, breezing by. He cranes his neck down to whisper, “You ever want this jackass to disappear, you let me know.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Cinderella says, not sure if Lea’s joking or not, “but thank you. Safe travels.” 

“Hey, Your Majesty, lemme tell you somethin’,” Kairi says, pointing to Charming as Lea opens a Corridor of Darkness in the hallway, standing over the threshold with his arms crossed, “You’re. A  _ dick _ . And if you come near Cindy again—”

“Hokay,” Lea says, grabbing Kairi by the scruff of her jacket, “we’re going.”

“—I’m gonna  _ find _ you and string you up by your  _ motherfuckin’—” _

Lea drags them into the dark, and the portal seals shut before Kairi can really get in the groove of threatening royalty. It’s a shame, but Cinderella wasn’t looking for that much of a scene, anyway. Charming’s beet red and shaking in his boots as is; Lord knows what this ruckus is going to do to the public opinion of his reputation.

Heavy silence sits between them, more effective a barrier than Cinderella’s Light. 

“So that's it, then,” Charming sighs. He sounds and looks exhausted. “Just like that. Thirteen years...”

“I don't mean to be crude about this, Charming, but honestly, I do have promises to keep. You weren't thinking about those years when you were fucking another woman,” Cinderella says, her voice cold.

“You're right.” Charming stands tall, but struggles to do so. “I wasn't thinking of them. I wasn't thinking much of anything. I was...I was weak. I was  _ lonely _ .”

“And you think I  _ wasn’t _ ?” Cinderella spits it out, anger rankling in her gut. 

“I’m not stupid. I saw how you looked at her. And I saw how she looked at  _ you _ .” 

“The difference is that I would  _ never _ have acted on it. The difference is that I  _ didn’t! _ As  _ lonely _ as I was, as much as I  _ wanted _ to, I respected you and our vows enough to  _ refrain _ . And you...you didn’t. You didn’t and you  _ told  _ her about—about me,” Cinderella says weakly. “You told that woman about  _ my _ past, about  _ my _ traumas, about  _ my _ fears. Do you know how much of a violation that is?” 

“I know,” Charming says, his voice growing hoarse as he struggles not to cry along with her. “I...I know. I shouldn’t have shared that. I’m sorry, for...for all of it.  But can you really leave all of this behind, Cinderella? The country, the kingdom, your people? They need you. I—I need you. Now more than ever. So much death...”

Cinderella shakes her head. “You're a brilliant king, Charming. And you're a good man. That's how I know you'll be fine, the kingdom will be fine. But you are absolutely worthless as a husband, and I—well. I am what I am. I'm a scullery maid,” Cinderella says with a giggle, wet and only somewhat hysterical, gesturing to her outfit while beaming. “And I'm fine with that.”

“...Then, as your king,” Charming sucks in a breath, “I wish you all the luck in your life. The both of you. If there is anything I can do to help, then the Keyblade Masters have my vow, it will be done.” He bends down to collect the discarded wedding ring. A tear tracks down his face, followed by two more, but he remains silent as he pockets it.

Cinderella wants to comfort him—of course she does—but she stifles that first impulse, knowing that he has wronged her, and she has every right to leave. She throws her shoulders back and walks past him. 

“Good luck,” Charming whispers as she does. 

She glides through the gardens and collects flowers, knowing that members of the castle who have—passed on, so to speak—will be buried in the royal cemetery, unless otherwise stated. The walk is long, secluded, and her stomach churns with every step, on the dirt path toward the plot of land behind the castle, beyond the gardens.

The practice of honoring the departed staff is, as far as Cinderella knows, new. Charming was insistent on allowing those who could not afford their own burial sites to find rest. Cinderella wants to believe that he passed such a law out of the goodness of his heart, but she can’t help but feel like he does it to help fill in space that would have otherwise be taken up by their own children. 

But Cinderella doesn’t dwell on that thought. She chooses to believe that Charming’s decisions were made out of goodness. 

Close by the open, iron gates lay three lines of twelve headstones each, humble but well made. Some of them oversee freshly turned earth, but one or two mark undisturbed grass. In the wake of such a horde of Heartless, a few bodies had to go missing. 

Cinderella trembles as she lays her flowers down for every servant who lost their lives during the coup. Feels tears crawl hot and heavy down her cheeks when she has to pass by young Herman’s grave, undecorated save a few trinkets and tools cleared from his bedspace. Mourns for her dear Gregory, and his medals carefully arranged and propped against the stone in a glass box. 

Cinderella prays for them both, and for Maisie, for Gertrude—and she even prays for Gerrit's family, their remains collected as well along with those of the other innocent family members of the counci.

(She does not pray for the old men who lost their family to begin with.)

A fine rain starts as Cinderella, for the last time, leaves the castle. She has nothing on her, save a purse with some coin, the clothes on her back, Ventus’s charm in her pocket and Aqua’s around her throat. The people on the streets rushing to get back into their homes greet her as  _ Your Highness! _

But soon that will change. Once Charming announces whatever he will about their divorce— _ their divorce! _ —who knows what will happen? If she needs shelter, she'll trade it for work. She won't accept charity. She'll build herself from the ground up again if she has to.

After she finds Aqua, of course.

Tentatively, Cinderella draws on their link, fearing that the path to Aqua's heart won't exist or will be so frayed as to be useless—maybe worse—but it still exists, shrouded in familiar darkness and hot to the touch. Cinderella lets it fill her up as she sways, smelling the remnants of burnt sugar, and she follows the pull wherever it will lead her.

Little surprise. It leads her to Tremaine's manor. The gate is wide open, the chains and padlocks clawed apart. The rain begins to kick into high gear and roar around her ears, spearing through her like a thousand ice cold knives.

Aqua stands back where she began, in the center of an impossible pumpkin patch. She looks even more inhuman among the magical growth, her silver hair whipping around the storm's wind. Lightning flashes above them in a commanding arc, thunder rolling after. Cinderella steps closer, through pumpkin leaves and briar patches. The rain comes down so heavily that it feels like it cuts out the rest of the world; it's just her, and Aqua, and the pumpkins.

Aqua turns slowly, all animal grace and caution. Where Cinderella expects her to look angry, or otherwise emotional, Aqua simply observes her with an air of undeserved patience.

“I was scared!” Cinderella half shouts to be heard over the storm, rambling words Aqua deserved to hear four months ago. “When I learned what Xehanort wanted and what the χ-blade was made out of, I was  _ terrified! _ I know—I know what that's like. My heart was stolen like the rest of my world.”

She feels the tears and lets them fall as Aqua turns to full face her, head cocked like a predator watching its wounded, squealing prey.

“I was part of a weapon forged to unleash Darkness,” Cinderella confesses. “In a way, I was forged and forced to become the antithesis of  _ all _ that I am, and I—I was used. As a blade, as a Keyhole. And I was warned about Xehanort, and the Seekers, who want the same! And I let my past fears and my hurts get the better of me, the better of  _ us _ —a-and I am so, so sorry. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Aqua.”

Aqua approaches her slow, steady. The rain intensifies, mist swirling around their feet. Cinderella feels no true fear, even though, by all accounts, a Heartless is closing in on her.

“I will  _ never _ hurt you again,” Cinderella vows. “And I should have trusted you,  _ you _ , of all people, because I've  _ seen  _ your heart, and you've trusted me with it, and I  _ broke _ it and—and I'll nev—”

Aqua raises a single hand. Cinderella stops and tries not to let her heart sink.  _ It's too late. I've ruined everything. She'll find a way to leave and I'll never see her again. _

This time there's no reason for Aqua  _ not _ to hurt her. Cinderella blinks the water out of her eyes and stifles her light and waits for the hit. The retaliation. She's been beaten for much less, and though Aqua's strikes will hurt the deepest, beyond what she’ll do to flesh, Cinderella knows she will live through it. 

(This time she deserves it, after all.)

Aqua's hand cups her cheek. The points of her claws tickle against Cinderella’s pulse. Both of them are chilled to the bone, trembling, rendered raw. Cinderella waits, but Aqua only holds her, eyes roving across her face with an expression Cinderella can’t place.

And still, she is so gentle. So careful.

“It hurt,” Aqua says, simply. “My eyes; my heart...I thought I’d fallen far enough. I didn’t think I could be brought lower. I didn’t think...that you would hurt me.”

Cinderella flinches.

“But you did. And you apologized. You...you apologized,” Aqua repeats, like she can’t believe anyone would do that for her. Cinderella opens her mouth to apologize again but Aqua shakes her head to stop her.

“I should have—told you. From the start. About Xehanort.” Aqua spits the name like the paste from a bitter root. “About what happened to me. To all of us. Especially if he's making moves to try and hurt you. And I shouldn't have left you all alone. 

“I did need the space,” Aqua says, thickly, her voice growing hoarse with each word, “but I shouldn't have abandoned you and the others. Maybe I couldn't have stopped all of the loss, but I could have countered some of it. We both know that.”

Cinderella holds her breath. She waits. Aqua's eyes go soft, colored like honey. There's so much emotion, so much hurt, it takes her breath away. This, Cinderella realizes, is Aqua at her most human. When she has lost nearly everything but a stubborn, tiny flicker of hope, reaching out like a child in the dark. 

“I want to trust you,” Aqua pleads. “I want to accept your apology. I want to be with my friends. My father. But I don't—I don't know if I can. I've been promised  _ so many _ times, and they've always failed me—”

Cinderella cups Aqua's cheeks in her hands. Her heart races. Aqua's eyes widen and the hope there ignites. If Aqua is brave enough to dive so deep into the Darkness, just to save her, then Cinderella will meet her halfway and more, will take her hand and step into the forbidden unknown. Cinderella will give Aqua all the proof she desires and more.

“I need...,” Aqua manages, voice softer than a whisper, breath held quickly. 

Cinderella tugs her down and takes her lips. Aqua tastes like roasted sugar and rainwater, sweetness and the afterburn of dark.

There's a moment where Aqua doesn't kiss back, and a second where Cinderella fears she's gone too far—perhaps misread  _ everything _ —before Aqua's arms snap around her waist. A clawed hand clamps against the nape of her neck, the other splayed against her spine, and Aqua kisses back like she's starving. A low, animal groan rolls out of her throat and against Cinderella's lips; she gasps in response, and Aqua takes her chance, deepens the kiss with a revealing sort of greed—

_ I will take everything you are willing to give. _

And Cinderella lets her, sagging against Aqua’s strong frame as her knees buckle. She isn’t  _ quite _ letting Aqua support her entire weight, but she hardly trusts her legs to work when they part only to breathe sharp and quick, when Aqua pulls her closer and grazes fangs against her bottom lip in her haste to get back in.

Cinderella can hardly contain her own heart. She has never, in her  _ life, _ kissed anyone the way she kisses Aqua now; all heat and pressure and ferocious emotions. Attraction and yearning, four months—no, surely,  _ more _ , since that first night perhaps—carves into her like a knife, flaying open the disguise of her skin and leaving nothing but raw nerves and human lust.

Gasping for air, Cinderella nudges at Aqua's heart with her light, gently, and Aqua lets her in, a purred croon muffled in the seal of the kiss. Cinderella slides her hands to Aqua’s broad shoulders, curls them to splay her fingers in between the knobs of her spine, and plunges deep to seek Aqua's darkness—the Phantom—to reach out to it. 

_ I'm sorry _ , Cinderella whispers beseechingly,  _ come back. I'll never hurt you again. _

The darkness doesn't respond, yet. Maybe the Phantom, that manifestation, no longer exists since Aqua embraced the darkness itself to this extent. Maybe, and Cinderella hopes it, the Phantom isn’t even needed. Maybe Aqua has found peace in her heart, in some strange way, by accepting the shadows that she casts.

But there are still lost, unwanted and foreign pieces in there, one in particular, that Cinderella knows does not belong in Aqua's champion heart. She banishes a few wayward shadows and trails deeper, following old scars and new, tended fractures.

She knows which horrors she has to face, which ghosts have latched into Aqua to torment her, and Cinderella shudders in her physical body when her heart moves closer to them and the smell of Tremaine’s perfume burns.

Cinderella whimpers; part of her heart quails with terror. In an instant Aqua's darkness is twined around her light, hissing and spitting like a cobra; Cinderella feels Aqua's physical arms wrap around her waist, holding her tight—hears soft, shushing breaths against her ear, Aqua’s lips desperately catching against her throat, sharp teeth by her pulse, fingers in her tangled, sodden hair pulling her head back to bare her neck—and the whiplash, oh, it would kill her if it dared.

_ Tremaine sneers at a cinder-faced-girl and the woman draped in the color blue as the Grand Duke sobs over the remains of the shattered slipper. I win, she thinks. You stupid child, she thinks. How dare you assume to become better than me? _

_ I own you. _

_ You are nothing without me. _

Cinderella's light latches onto the shard of Tremaine's lingering ghost lodged deep within Aqua's heart, and she pulls, yanks, frees it. Tremaine’s darkness burns away like a wilting weed and finally dies, and Cinderella finds herself wrapped up and carried, within and without. Aqua’s heart carries Cinderella’s light back where it belongs, and when Cinderella opens her eyes, Aqua has carried them both inside the manor proper.

They lay just within the dusty foyer, on top of cold floor and moth eaten rugs. Aqua's propped herself up on a strong arm, the other holding Cinderella's neck and head up and away from the worst of it. They pant together, dripping with water, pressed tight together. Aqua's body heat soaks into Cinderella’s second-skin frock, and Cinderella swallows hard, licks at her lips.

Aqua's eyes shoot down again. She draws her lower lip between her fangs, naked yearning clear on her face.

Cinderella doesn't think about her ex-husband. She doesn't think about the war or the coup or the weight of death. She doesn't think about the threat of Xehanort, the vague warnings of the Seekers prowling the worlds. She doesn't think about her past, or Aqua's, or how they've both been shaped by them. 

Cinderella does think about Aqua's outfit molded to her body, emphasizing all of her sleek power, her shoulders. She does think about how the chill is chased away with Aqua's body pressed intimately against her own, the heat of her darkness searing Cinderella to the soul. She does think about how much it hurt when Aqua left, when Aqua stayed away, of being the cause of it.

And oh, does Cinderella think about kissing her.

“Aqua,” Cinderella breathes. Her ice cold hands slide against Aqua's back, coasting around her shoulders, her fingers brushing against Aqua's clavicle, then lower. Her hand slides until the palm of it rests over Aqua's heart. It thunders strong and proud, and her breath hitches in kind as Aqua's mouth parts on a gasp.

The arm bracing Aqua up shakes. Then she lowers them both, one arm still keeping Cinderella's head and neck off of the floor. Aqua's breath shakes over Cinderella's chin, her hair hanging in thick strands, dripping water over Cinderella's cheek and throat. Her dark lashes flutter shut; Cinderella's feels her own slide closed, the invisible line drawn between them blurred and kicked and shattered.

Aqua kisses her again, harder now, laps her way in. Cinderella drags her hands up and down Aqua's bared back and digs her nails into the muscle, just to feel the way it flinches under her touch. There's a constant rumble as Aqua kisses her; a purr, or a growl. Her claws graze the skin of Cinderella's thigh as the hem of her frock rides up when Aqua writhes against her; Aqua's hand hot on her hip, coaxing a leg up and over Aqua's own, letting them slide even closer. Harsh panting as Aqua leaves her lips again to fasten a kiss against Cinderella's pulse, nearly breaking the skin with her fangs.

Lightning strikes the tree just outside, loud enough to ring in her ear. She shrieks; Aqua casts her barrier spell again and lunges to cover Cinderella, curling her body above her. After a moment they part, the magic barrier slowly fading away. They lay panting against each other just over the threshold, and Aqua goes tense.

“I can keep up a barrier for a trip back to the castle,” Aqua says quietly. Bitterly. “Can't have Charming worrying about your whereabouts.”

“Let him,” Cinderella gasps out, an arm over thrown over her forehead as she tries to regain her breath. “He's not my husband anymore.”

“ _ Huh? _ ”

“Cheated on me,” Cinderella mumbles, pushing up on her elbows. “Less talking, please. I believe we were in the middle of something?”


	17. May I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May I love you? / May I be your shield? / When no one can be found / may I lay you down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> But also, on a more serious note; this chapter is nothin' but nonexplicit fuckin'. Nothing extremely important to the overarching plot, aside from explaining where Aqua was during Cinderella's nap (tl;dr: in the woods freaking out.) happens. If the next chapter is up by the time you read this, skipping ahead is a-okay and you miss out on nothing.

She's on fire. Her blood crawls in her veins like a living thing, spurred on by every slow pound of her numb heart. Sensations are tripled; senses unparalleled. Even before today, before this exact moment, Aqua knows she has been irrevocably changed. That she has become a being that should not exist. 

The first few seconds of her change had been filled with terror. Giving into her darkness, letting it boil her flesh and burn away her reason, her identity, compounded by Heartless raking their claws into her flesh again, hungry mouths ripping for the festering organ behind her ribs.

But then. Oh, the release.

The Heartless dissolving  _ into _ her as they realized she was the superior. Magic roaring in her ears as she'd reached for Spellweaver and still found it there, ready to serve her. Rapture at finally,  _ finally _ , controlling the demons that had hounded her for  _ ages _ . And tearing into that enormous Heartless  _ with just her hands _ , and with no trouble besides? It was like biting into rich chocolate, letting it melt on her tongue. 

Of course, it had been short lived. Her heart had nearly crumbled beneath the weight of her shame of betraying her Master’s teachings, betraying  _ herself _ . After all the things she’d accused and blamed Terra for, because of the Darkness he  _ couldn’t _ control, to give herself up to it so easily—to become warped by it so completely—had almost broken her. 

Almost.

After the mending of her heart—and the emotional highs that had her doubting all that she knew over again—Aqua woken in the shadows, and fled deeper into them. 

It’s a new trick that reminds her too much of Vanitas, but she can’t deny the convenience. She melted into negative space, danced between sunlight, fleeing faster with Darkness than her feet could have ever taken her. 

She lived on the fringes of the city, in alleys and backroads. Slunk into the forests soon after, where the sun couldn't reach her and there was nothing but blissful shade. She stayed there for a time, awake and aware and thriving, horrified, disgusted.  _ What have I become _ had been the mantra in Aqua’s head as she fractured, existed, dissolved, and reformed all over again. 

She had no need of food, no want for sleep, but how she  _ hungered _ for the Light. The scent of the World’s heart, safe and locked away but pounding fierce beneath her feet, had haunted her. Cinderella’s voice chased her in the day and the almost-kiss shared in the phantasmal space of Aqua’s heart taunted her self control. Half of her had wanted to cleave to Cinderella’s side, live forever in the shade cast by the brilliancy of her heart; the other wanted leave the World behind and fall back to where she really belonged.

Three weeks had passed her in that haze before clarity came back.  

Instinct had led her back to the manor as the sun rose and the clouds moved to eclipse it. Clawing it open had been second thought, and her feet had carried her to the back. Aqua had stood beneath the sun until the clouds gathered, until the rain began to pour, and wondered why. When she’d felt Cinderella’s tender pull on her heart, even from so far away, she surrendered without a second thought. 

Where she expected the Light to flay her open, it stroked against her with such fond tenderness that Aqua’s legs had nearly buckled. That alone kept her from running once Cinderella had eventually found her.

And then—

And  _ now _ —

Cinderella's heart burns hot and hard, lighting her up from within. Untouched, unaffected, unchanged. So  _ fucking _ beautiful. Hunger for more than a kiss runs Aqua ragged; she wants to crawl inside, rake her fingertips against the supernova glittering in Cinderella’s chest, sip the noises she'll make when Aqua opens her up. Yearns for the sight Cinderella will make splayed against the wood, her Light cracking like bones in Aqua’s teeth.  

That horrifying impulse, and the news that Charming  _ cheated _ on Cinderella, is enough to snap her out of it.

“ _ What? _ ” Aqua rasps again.

“Do you really want the specifics right now, Aqua?” Cinderella blinks up at her through damp lashes, her bangs tangled in wet strings. The cold has paled her skin, save for her lips—and a lurid bruise against her pulse. Cinderella draws her arm off of her head and drapes it around Aqua's shoulders, fingertips gently petting against the nape of her neck. “Shall I drag out every fraught detail?”

“I just—don't—understand?” Aqua shakes her head hard, scattering water. Her hindbrain hammers  _ want _ and  _ need _ down her spine. Primitive and stupid. 

She wants to kiss Cinderella again, needs to slake the ruby red haze at the back of her eyes. She wants to hoard Cinderella away for hours, days,  _ forever _ , until the universe crumbles around their ears.

At the same time Aqua  _ wants _ to fling herself into the shadows. She wants to sneak into the castle and find Charming. She needs to see him for herself; she needs feel the putrid tang of sin festering in him, his deceit and guilt singing sweetly to every cell loud enough to make her want to crack him open like the shell of a crab and dig her fingers in the viscera of his chest.

_ wants to find his traitor's heart and  _ **_dig her fangs into it until it bursts red and black_ ** —

“Aqua,” Cinderella calls, capturing her face again. 

Just the sound of her voice pulls Aqua out of her own head, rips her cerebellum to rights. She blinks drowsily at Cinderella, who does the impossible, and gives her a  _ smile _ .

“Don't think about him,” Cinderella says, her voice low and smooth, her fingers rolling against Aqua's temples, “because he doesn't  _ matter _ . It hurt, and I'll hurt thinking about him for a while—”

An inarticulate sound of anger rattles with a hiss in Aqua’s throat.  _ Was that supposed to calm her?! _ Aqua trembles, feeling the rage surge against the membrane of her skin, anchored in place only by Cinderella's hands, a caged beast held back with only a tender touch.

“—but it's  _ done _ ,” Cinderella whispers. “It's over with. I don't want to be with him anymore. I don't want to be  _ here _ anymore. I want to—if you'll have me—I want to go where you go. Together. It could be  _ anywhere _ and I'll make it a home because it's with you. I want that.  _ I want you _ .”

Aqua clamps a hand around Cinderella's jaw, but softens her touch in the half heartbeat’s moment worth of time. Her hand trembles against Cinderella’s skin, and she has never been more aware or conscious of her own strength than in this moment. There’s still a quiet impulse lingering in the eaves of her subconscious, demanding that Aqua rip and tear and sunder; but her  _ heart _ , despite everything, commands her to be gentle. To take care. 

So Aqua listens, in a way. The kiss she surrenders is chaste, almost sweetly so, but the way she curls around Cinderella’s body is unmistakably intimate. Aqua shivers around her bones as Cinderella hums sweetly, and rolls her entire body in a deep grind that has Cinderella's hands yanking at her scalp. The bloodiron smell of heat, the taste of Cinderella’s gasp, the pulse of light that flutters hard from where it’s pressed against Aqua's chest—

Aqua savors every last part of it. The darkness has made her greedy, or perhaps it’s simply made it easier for her to admit it. Aqua really is quite the awful person, but when she tries to gather up enough consciousness to feel guilty over it, Cinderella pets over her skin again with amorous tenderness, pants Aqua’s name into their kiss, scratches at Aqua’s shoulders.

Aqua breaks free against her lesser judgement. “Are we going to have sex?” she grates bluntly, feeling her face grow hot with a rush of blood.

The question’s unseated Cinderella, but not as much as Aqua would have thought. 

“I admit,” Cinderella gasps beneath her, “I wouldn't be opposed.”

Something wicked burns in Aqua's stomach. The impulse of cruelty crawls up to her throat, makes her grab Cinderella's wrists and pin them down and loom possessively over her body. Aqua is familiar with self-loathing, has struggled with it for the better part of the year, but if the darkness has made it easier to be greedy, then it’s paved the way for Aqua to destroy herself. 

“So,” Aqua hisses, the words hot and thick like tar over her tongue, “you'd let me  _ fuck _ you in this dilapidated old mansion, is that it?” 

She's not sure who she's mocking in this instance, but Aqua doesn't fight the impulse as hard as she should. The feedback loop from the dark corners of her heart celebrate it;  _ who would ever want something like you _ , the Darkness sneers,  _ so angry and bitter and ruined? _

“What do you want from me,” Aqua taunts, pleading with her eyes for an answer that will make it all  _ stop.  _ She watches Cinderella’s eyes narrow, accepting a challenge, but her mouth keeps  _ moving _ , “What does  _ Her Highness _ want from a monst—”

Aqua isn't prepared for Cinderella to snap her head forward, teeth clamping on her bottom lip hard enough for the edge of a tooth to pierce skin. Aqua snarls more in shock than anything else; she tastes copper and rears back onto her knees, a hand rushing to her lip.

“ _ None _ of that,” Cinderella spits, hackles raised like an angry cat. She has a splotch of blood smeared against the corner of her mouth, a bead of it trailing down her chin. Red. Aqua's. Human. “You will  _ not _ refer to yourself as a monster, do you hear me? You are  _ so much more _ than your body. I know your heart, Aqua; you are more human than many a man I've met by  _ far _ . I know monsters! I was  _ raised  _ by them.“

Lightning flashes behind them again, but the thunder takes a moment or two to roll over. The worst of the storm is passing, though the wind still howls. Aqua feels the tempest inside of her, too, though the roaring storm in her chest quails, chastised, in the face of Cinderella’s honest words. It’s more effective than the smarting pain in her lip; Aqua thinks she feels a whimper in the hollow of her throat, instinctual.

“And yes,” Cinderella breathes after the pregnant silence passes, judging it safe to speak with softness and care, “I would  _ make love _ to you in this rotting manor, or anywhere else you could think of. I. Don't.  _ Care _ . I would be with  _ you _ . That's all that matters to me, you—you—”

“Insufferable idiot?” Aqua mumbles, massaging a healing spell into her split lip with the pad of a finger.

“—That will do nicely.” At Aqua's incredulous doubletake, Cinderella sniffs, “I won't allow you to refer to yourself as a monster, but when you're being an idiot I'd at least like to have you as a  _ self-aware _ idiot.”

“Point taken,” Aqua says finally. She feels a little sick, not because of Cinderella, but because the back and forth and whiplash between near blinding lust and banter. Granted, she’s still caught by the throat with her own desires; Cinderella is,  _ somehow _ , even more gorgeous when she's stubborn and snarling. “I'm...sorry.”

“Whatever for, my darling?” Cinderella licks the pad of her thumb and sits up to scrub away the blood drying on Aqua's lip and chin.

“I...think I keep ruining the mood.” As Cinderella's thumb passes over her bottom lip again, Aqua parts them on impulse and darts her tongue, catching it. Tastes iron and salt and laps it away before parting with a kiss, watches Cinderella stop  _ breathing _ for a whole second, before continued after a series of rapid blinks.

“Mm, w-well.” Cinderella sits back as best she can, trying in vain to fix the hem of her dress with Aqua still caged between her legs. “You’re good at bringing it back, if that’s any consolation.” At Aqua’s minor pout, Cinderella soothes with, “No one said we would be  _ perfect _ in any combination together, Aqua. I’ve had a ‘perfect’ night and, well, let’s just say it was far more awkward than this is so far.”

Aqua recoils a bit, finding her face twisting in a grimace. Of course Cinderella and Charming had—of course. They were married. It doesn’t mean she wants to think about it; it inspires neither jealousy or pride, just a slight discomfort.

“Did it hurt?” Aqua asks on impulse, her eyes focused on the red trail against Cinderella's own skin in an effort to distract herself. “For you?”

Cinderella slowly shakes her head. “Oh, no. No. It should never hurt. Have you, ever—”

“I wasn't exactly around many other girls,” Aqua grumbles, feeling foolish. It's bad enough she's trapped in a body that's thirteen years younger than Cinderella's, frozen at twenty two with an armful of months to age her since her escape from the Realm of Darkness. That she’s never experienced intimacy outside of fiction makes it somewhat worse. “And the only one interested during my journey was a man. So. No, I've. Never.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say—the  _ only _ one interested,” Cinderella husks. Her cheeks are adorably flushed and she worries her bottom lip, like she hadn’t really meant for that nugget of information to slip out. 

“Well, then the only one who made his interest openly known,” Aqua says, taking mercy rather than pursuing it. 

“So this would be your...first go of it,” Cinderella states. Her flush worsens and she tucks a soaked lock of hair behind her ears, tongue wetting her bottom lip on impulse. Aqua doesn’t try to pretend that she isn’t watching it. “Is it...terribly inappropriate to find that attractive?” 

“What, the prospect of my  _ inelegant _ fumbling?” Aqua asks dryly.

“Being the first person to…” Cinderella looks away. “You won’t think less of me?”

Aqua almost laughs— _ like I could now, after everything you’ve promised _ —but she only nods, leaning a little closer. She touches Cinderella’s hands, holds them in her own and tilts her head around to meet Cinderella’s eyes with her own. Aqua can’t think of any words to give her in encouragement, so she only nods and brings Cinderella’s hands to her lips and kisses the knuckles of both in fealty, in hope. 

It seems to work. Cinderella swallows, hard, and grips Aqua’s hands back. “I would be the first to...to touch you,” she says in a whisper, like she’s awed by some divine revelation. “The first to kiss you. The first, to...t-to make, you…”

“Yours?” Aqua murmurs quietly, hearing the roughness in her own voice, turning it sandpaper harsh. 

Cinderella flushes so hard it creeps down her neck and beneath her collar. She leans her head closer, the humid heat of her words blowing across Aqua’s nose. “Yes. That. Mmhm.”

“...Oh.” Aqua thinks on it. Can't seem to drag her eyes away from Cinderella's neck and chin, the carmine streak of her own blood a stark contrast against Cinderella’s neck. “ _ Hm _ .”

“That's certainly a noise—” Cinderella gasps as Aqua gathers her close, arms looping around her hips and buttocks to pull Cinderella into her lap as Aqua settles on the balls of her feet. A beastly demon of pride purrs in satisfaction at the noise Cinderella makes when Aqua simply stands, lifting and holding Cinderella up without so much as a noise of effort. 

Aqua only echoes the noise when she follows her initial impulse, dragging her tongue up from the center of Cinderella’s throat and following the line of blood up. Cinderella wheezes, fingers curling and digging against muscle. There’s a slight sting from Cinderella’s nails that sends sparks of heat racing up and down Aqua’s spine.

She carefully, gently rakes the curve of her fangs over pebbling skin to free flecks of dried blood, lingering with a humid sigh against the corner of Cinderella's mouth. 

“—I think I like your 'hm',” Cinderella breathes against her cheek.

“I think I like tasting my blood on your skin,” Aqua hums.

“Let's not make that a habit,” Cinderella says. She wiggles in Aqua’s grasp, her legs secured around Aqua’s waist, leaning back and trusting Aqua’s strength to hold her aloft. Delicate fingers linger against the Master’s charm sitting between the two red straps across Aqua’s chest. “May I?”

Aqua grunts softly, bouncing Cinderella up a touch higher to support her with one arm entirely, lets herself tug playfully on the bow of Cinderella's apron. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“Deal,” Cinderella giggles, her voice quiet and light like they’re sharing secrets

The straps are discarded. The apron is tossed, sopping, to the floor. At some point, between Cinderella desperately tossing aside the sleeves barely clinging to Aqua’s biceps, kicking at the cloth wrap at her hips and herself nearly ripping Cinderella's bodice with her claws, Aqua realizes something; the peace in her head. The  _ silence _ .

There's no ghost of Ventus to chase. No Terra screaming in her ear. No Phantom hovering over her shoulder and lingering in the mirror, saying all the truths in her heart that Aqua was so desperate to ignore or avoid. Not even the dangerous hunger and unfamiliar impulses from her transformation. 

Nothing. Just... _ bliss _ and peace, and the heavy-soft breathing of Cinderella above her.

Aqua slides her hand up Cinderella's thigh, claws catching on undergarments beneath. Carefully,  _ so _ carefully, she finds the waistband of them and tears through. In the silence broken by falling rain and their shared breaths, the sound of rending fabric is like a gunshot; Cinderella laughs and narrows her eyes playfully as the scraps are tugged away and lost, forgotten.

Then Cinderella shuts them with a high pitched whimper as Aqua dips her head to the bared skin of her clavicle, tangling her fingers tightly in Aqua’s hair. She pulls a little when Aqua digs the sharp points of her fangs against the gentle swell of flesh bared by her loose bodice, almost to the point of breaking but never quite. When Aqua turns her other hand, cups slick heat and coarse hair, the whimper turns into a long exhale, and Cinderella shivers in her grasp.

Aqua doesn't dare use her fingers, and even her palm against such a sensitive place feels like blasphemy. Aqua trails her lips up Cinderella’s neck, kissing her apologies as she sets Cinderella down and draws her hands away, shushing Cinderella gently when a mourning whine escapes. 

The slick shine on her palm taunts Aqua with an idea, and her mouth waters as she realizes a simple solution.

The sun's beginning to break through the clouds as the storm starts to dissolve, although the rain continues in a silky, whisper drizzle. When Aqua presses Cinderella against the window, drops to her knees, and draws down the skirt of Cinderella’s outfit with trembling fingers, she looks up for assurance, hands still shaking even as she presses the palms against the backs of Cinderella’s knees. 

Aqua exhales like she’s been punched.

The sunlight and rain shine against the glass, outlining Cinderella in gold. Pools of it cascade into her unbuttoned bodice before it, and the shift beneath, fall to the ground. The light only highlights the marks Aqua's lips and teeth have left behind. Cinderella cups a hand over her mouth but the crinkle of her eyes and the sparkle within them betray a shy, eager smile.

She looks like everything a Princess of Heart should look like; shrouded entirely by the unchanging ethereal, a beacon only caressed enviously by darkness. What should be the impossible woven into reality with steel thread and glass arranged in a mortal vessel. How terrifying, that the Light can create something so perfect, so capable of destroying Aqua, and to have her trust Aqua so much. 

On her knees, Aqua feels nothing at all like a disgraced Master, a misplaced monster; she’s more a humble, weary servant come to rest at the altar of a deity without patronage, ancient and eternal. Suddenly her lack of experience doesn't matter. Her transformation doesn't matter. The lonely heartache of their separation and the misunderstood anger and the unspoken hurts fade away.

Aqua isn’t an idiot, and she knows this peaceful moment won't last; soon Aqua will have to face reality, will have to fight tooth and claw for her shredded humanity minute by minute. She knows that the Darkness is stitched inside of her cells, steeped in her soul. 

She hasn’t even come to terms with it, not truly. There will be long days and longer nights and she may never reclaim her past self. The fact of it is that Aqua may never become what she once was.

But for now, Aqua’s mind is her own. Aqua’s body is her own. Her heart, the wretched and tender thing, rests in Cinderella's hands.

“I-is something wrong?” Cinderella whispers, the hand from her mouth falling to her chest to cross with the other, as if remembering to feel modest in the face of nudity. Aqua answers like any smart woman would: by lowering her head in worship. 

She tries not to be selfish. Truly, she does. But the Darkness feeds on her gluttony, and her desire to please, to  _ serve _ , to take and give—and she digs her claws into the backs of Cinderella’s thighs, buries closer, refusing to give up her hardwon prize. She ignores the passage of time, the ache in her knees, thighs, jaw. 

It isn’t until Cinderella begs her in raw voice to stop that Aqua releases her, mouth swollen and tongue only a little numb. She’s wound so tightly that she almost shakes out of her over-sensitive skin as Cinderella collapses back into her lap, heaving and dropping kisses against her sweat-slick neck. When Cinderella grabs Aqua by the sides of her face, and takes her mouth with shocking hunger, the strength drains out of her body. 

Together, they manage to to drag down a cushion from the neary seat by the window for Aqua to lay back against; together, they fumble with Aqua’s leather top, peeling it off of her overheated skin. Cinderella touches her covetously, fingers tracing the lines of her abdominals with undisguised wonder. She strokes scars she had never noticed, petting over Aqua’s muscled back, bared in full, her teeth pinching Aqua’s neck in small little pinches.

Aqua doesn’t mean to, but she lets out a pitiful, pleading whine. 

Aqua can only get her shorts down to the middle of her thighs before Cinderella climbs over her, asking in a soft voice and with softer eyes if it’s  _ okay, may I? May I, may I, may I _ —

“Please—” Aqua gasps. Tears burn, and threaten, but never fall. “ _ Please. _ ” 

Cinderella quiets her with a tender kiss, and they fit together as if magicked from glass. Beneath her back it feels as if the very earth churns and roils around them, but Aqua pays it no mind; Cinderella's praises in her ears block everything else out. For a second it feels like Cinderella's heart, racing like a hunted rabbit, will burst open and take Aqua's own heart inside forever— _ the closer you are to light, the greater your shadow will become _ —but it’s only a mirage of sensation. Cinderella curls over her, thunder snarling overhead, Aqua rakes her claws through fabric and feathers—

And when the storm ends, she lets Cinderella hold her as the sun washes over them both.


	18. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hate must never win / Even when we're worlds apart / ... / Hold on my dear / I'm coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Memories of past assault (completely nonsexual) and soft PTSD. 
> 
> also hi im back, sort of! i do apologize for the wait, but in my own defense, it was because i got a new job, had some health scares, got lost in the realm of darkness, had a LOT of trouble with the edits needed to make this chapter work (i had to basically rewrite it from the ground up) and other stuff. that said, i hope you enjoy!!

_ The Realm of Darkness twists and turns, but there are some paths that are only reflections of what Aqua has already experienced, and therefore, they remain static. Fitting, that a nightmarish realm crafts itself in the same molds it uses to torment her; still, there is some spiteful comfort in traveling down dark and ghostly paths.  _

_ The city surrounding Cinderella’s castle, and the castle itself to some extent, is colorless and empty. It truly is only a facsimile of what it once was, lingering behind like the ghost of a discolored bruise now that the world itself has returned to the Realm of Light. Good, Aqua thinks. What remains here in this wretched place is just Aqua’s memories given tangible shape. A twisted cacophony of the real Castle of Dreams, of what had existed in the Realm of Darkness before its miraculous restoration.  _

_ That boy, Sora, has something to do with it. Aqua’s certain of that. Now, if only she could be certain of everything else… _

_ Such as where Ansem the Wise had gone. The Dark Margin was the safest place one could remain—as safe as one could be in the Realm of Darkness, at least—and Aqua had hoped her companion would remain there with her, if for nothing else but the company. Sharing conversation and watch duties, on and off, to doze...passing the endless loop of time...aside from her brief reunion with Mickey, the minor routine had given her some form of happiness. Talking with someone ebbed the loneliness and made it easier to keep her spirits high, to remember her vow to become a Light among the Darkness.  _

_ To be a Wayfinder.  _

_ But Aqua had once woken to find Ansem the Wise missing, nothing but his black cloak left behind on the rock he liked to sit upon. So, of course, Aqua took it upon herself to search for him. _

_ But there aren’t many places Aqua is willing to go, herself. She has her Keyblade and her magic, and the old routes left behind, but the route back to the Dark Margin could be lost if she dares to wander out too far. _

_ So she doesn’t. _

_ Ansem the Wise is not in the memory of Cinderella’s world; he wasn’t there the first, the third, or the tenth time Aqua checked. And yet her feet always carry her here, to walk among crumbling cobblestone. There is no light, not even the mimicry of starlight; Aqua lights streetlamps with lazy waves of Fire, like she’s done every time. Though the world is frozen in its ruin, the lamps never stay lit when Aqua leaves, which means that something or someone keeps putting them out. The Heartless? Probably.  _

_ She clears out waves of them more out of habit than anything. Her imprisonment has been a whetstone to her sense for battle; Aqua doesn’t even need to think about her moves, anymore. Her body moves on its own, channeling spells and barriers to ward off attacks, Master’s Defender cutting through the hordes.  _

_ In the center of the town, where there was once a grand plaza and a fountain stands a twisting spire of housing debris and shards of crystalized energy, stolen and warped by the Darkness. Aqua scales it to the highest point and settles down when the fighting is through, staring blankly ahead. The clock by the castle stares back at her, mockingly it seems, frozen at hour of midnight.   _

_ Not for the first time, Aqua wonders how Cinderella is doing. _

_ Of course, Aqua wonders about how many people are doing; the citizens of Disney Town, Prince Phillip and Princess Aurora, young Snow White and her dwarves, and all the other friendly folks Aqua has helped or been helped by in her journey.  _

_ But she feels closest to Cinderella, if that’s even possible. There’s no reason for her to; they exchanged greetings and names and finally farewells, but Aqua’s mind—when it does drift—always runs over the dreamy memories of that night. Guiding Cinderella down the stairs, thanking her for helping Terra, even protecting her from the twisted Darkness that came from Cinderella’s stepfamily and their Unversed. _

_...She really was quite pretty, something in her mind supplies.  _

_ Aqua jolts. What an—an odd thing, to consider. Of all times. Though, she muses, it’s not really all that bad. Maybe it isn’t...so untoward, to think of pretty girls to help shore up the foundation of her heart. It can’t hurt to, at least. Cinderella will never know, even though—surely, by now—she’s married. Maybe she’s even had children. A family. Maybe, when Aqua is free, she’ll visit and see how the years have treated Cinderella. Maybe she’ll even thank Cinderella once more, for reminding her to believe in a wish from her heart.  _

_ “That might be nice,” Aqua says out loud, to herself, voicing the thoughts in her brain so she doesn’t collapse under the weight of silence. She props an arm on her knee and lets her cupped hand support her chin, gazing over the ruins of Cinderella’s world, focused on the clock.  _

_ “I hope she remembers me.”  _

_ (There’s a sting in her brain. A low, sonorous hum. Ghostly footsteps that Aqua knows better than to acknowledge; the distant sound of a carriage rattling over the road.) _

_ “I should have tried…” Aqua lets the muse petter out into the air, the words sliding off her tongue in wistful curls of color. She swings a leg idly, and there’s a curious warmth in her face. “...Ah, it doesn’t matter. She’s happy. That’s what does.” _

_ (The pit in her stomach winds tight in imagined hunger. Something is coming, whispers the Dark.) _

_ There’s a shifting in the clock. Aqua stands up in an instant, leaping from the highest point and dashing across currents of magic to bring her to land on the road to Cinderella’s castle. A new number has bloomed between twelve and one, like a rude weed. It reads thirteen; the minute hand clicks over to it with a horrible, shrieking scrape of metal. The hour hand is soon to follow. _

_ “The Witching Hour?” Aqua murmurs. She’s only read myths of it back during her studies; an hour where magic is sovereign, but where the veil of reality and dreams grows thin, threadbare to nothing.  _

_ Aqua goes still. The Realm of Darkness is always quiet, but rarely is it totally silent. Her heart drops. _

_ Chills race across her skin and that’s Aqua’s cue to leave the hollowed remains of Cinderella’s world, but upon her first step she sinks to the knee in shade. A rasped scream rips from her throat as the violet energy swallows her up to her ribs. Then to her shoulders, sucking her down into the abyss as Aqua struggles, thrashing, the ringing gong of the clock mocking her.  _

_ The last thing Aqua sees is the ticking clock. Then it’s nothing but the dark and cold. The roar of the ocean, quiet and filling her up with its frosted anger. Aqua sinks further and further, thrashing and swimming against the current to no avail.  _

_ There are things, here.  _

_ Claws ripping across her chest, digging against her back; an unnatural, terrifying shock of frigid, sickly cold in her leg.  _

_ Look down. Heartless, fangs buried in her thigh. Watch its teeth sink deeper, deeper, until the Heartless shudders and turns to ichorsmoke and poison, melting into skin. Feel it like an invasion, ringing in the chest, echochamber cavity around her heart.  _

_ Lungs full; heart full, numb, stone cold; her Wayfinder spiraling out into the depths, cord broken, wrenched from her neck… _

_ Cold. Quiet. Realization. _

_ There are things, here.  _

_ Words and voices and hands that don’t belong to her, scrambling for a way in. This place, where all the worst hearts dwell in their agony, in their hate, is a hell in itself. A new victim, a new vessel, a new way out. The hearts are just as hungry as the beasts that feast on them in return; Aqua chokes on it, putrid rot tarthick against the roof of her mouth, tangling in between her ribs in sticky spider threads. _

_ Hear the Phantom, screaming;  _ **_Get back up_ ** _.  _

_ Always get back up. _

_ ( _ **_There are things, here._ ** _ ) _

_ Fight. Fight fight fight. Summon the Keyblade, take on the Dark. Spellweaver; Thundaga. Curaga. More Heartless, sensing weakness,  _ **_finally_ ** _ ,  _ **_so hungry, won’t let you go, can never let you go_ ** _ , know that with every strike there’s more Heartless burrowing for her heart, fumble with Master’s Defender, feel it thrum and pulse like dragon’s blood, searing in her trembling, ice coated hands.  _

_ Not sure if it’s magic or the Dark as she spins aimlessly, waiting for the next blow.  _

_ Glimpse Terra’s eyes in the threat, remember how his hand felt around her neck. Choking, breaking; helpless.  _

_ Hear Ven’s laughter in the wind, in the water. Fear what it means because Ven is supposed to be safe, asleep, locked away. Scream as the distraction costs another Heartless bite to the arm, sinking in to the soul. Blink; remember lives never lived, remember blood, remember betrayal, never forget the hunger. _

**_I have to get out of here_ ** _ , Aqua thinks with newfound, perfect clarity right before a Heartless tackles her from behind, sending them lurching deeper, ever deeper, into the abyss. Know that it’s tearing at her skin frantically, ripping her open in an effort, hear it  _ **_hungry so hungry_ ** _ salivate in empathy,  _ **_hate it for dragging her down_ ** _.  _

_ The Darkness coats every inch of her as she fights. It feels like a lead weight in her gut, squirming just under her skin. Suddenly— _

_ It responds. _

_ Wildly, Aqua thinks— _

_ She thinks— _

_ (shethinkswishespraysbegsscreams) _

_ She thinks about Cinderella. _

_ There’s a mote of light, smaller than a mote of dust but so gorgeous, beautiful, taunting her. Aqua’s hand shoots for it, grasps empty air, rips through the fabric of the abyss and Aqua tumbles from the Dark and into searing, blistering, blessed Light.  _

_ (Dirt in her face. Solid. Smoke curling off of every limb. Voices, panicked and screaming; real? No. Fake; no. Mashed somewhere between. A menagerie of memories that don’t belong to her, eclipsing her senses and her identity, filling her head with their lives, their stories, baying at freedom. Not just them; Darkness that doesn’t belong, stewing inside of her and howling for a chance to be let loose, cutting her inside out and whipping her own Darkness into a rabid frenzy. _

_ Terra kneeling at her head, laughing maniacally through a curtain of silver hair as he tangles a hand into thick knots against her scalp, shoving her face harder into the mud; Ven, just out of the corner of her mind’s eye, limp and sleeping quietly; Master Eraqus, watching, blood weeping from his mouth. The Phantom stalking her. Overload of sound and smells she can’t breathe she can’t think she can’t move she can’t she can’t  _ **_she can’t she can’t—_ **

_ “Aqua,” Cinderella croaks.) _

Her eyes open in a snap, her inhale sharp. She is never quite asleep—she either can’t, or she simply doesn’t need to, not as she is now—but Aqua’s grip on reality is still...tender. Fragile. Being lost in her own memories, however briefly, is almost like dreaming. And it’s to be expected. 

Unwelcome. But expected. 

Cinderella stirs sleepily against her. Aqua feels the tickle of her eyelashes as Cinderella opens them, lifts her head from Aqua’s chest. The sun’s just beginning to set, now, coating Cinderella’s hair and skin in warm, syrup sweet pastels. It makes the grey blue of her eyes stand out all the more. Aqua melts at the sight, the tension pouring out of her.

“Aqua?” Cinderella’s voice is roughened, sweetly, from her nap. And, Aqua suspects with a terrible flush,  _ other _ things. Things she tries very much in vain not to think about as Cinderella shifts against her, bare skin tacky from sweat and the storm and intimacy, as the sensations remind Aqua of how  _ unclothed _ they both are. 

“I’m fine,” Aqua says, perhaps far too quickly. She’s self conscious, even  _ shy _ , and while it’s a relief to be able to know she’s at least human enough to  _ feel _ these sorts of things, that doesn’t make the experience any better. Especially while she’s naked. 

And  _ especially _ not when Cinderella frowns, just a touch, and props herself up, her elbows only slightly digging into Aqua’s stomach. Then it’s just...bare skin all the way down. With the two of them pressed so tightly together on the settee, beneath the cleanest sheet in the dour old mansion, there’s nothing  _ immediately _ visible aside from Cinderella’s shoulders, her clavicle, the tops of her—

Aqua isn’t proud to admit that she stares, but she does. Blatantly. A strange, rumbling purr starts up in her chest.  _ What was I worrying about, again...? _

Cinderella clears her throat lightly. Guilty, Aqua snaps her eyes up to Cinderella’s face. Relief blooms in her heart at Cinderella’s amused, flushed smile. There’s a very careful, satisfied confidence in her smile that reminds Aqua of the days spent countering Gerrit and the council. The victorious shine of a conqueror; how apt, as Aqua has never felt more conquered or more happy to be so. 

But soon, even that expression fades into gentle concern. Cinderella doesn’t ask, not outwardly, and Aqua knows she is under no obligation to tell Cinderella anything.

“It...I was just remembering, some things.” Aqua is slow to share the admission, but parts with it freely, honestly. “Just...I wasn’t expecting the memories. Caught me a little off guard. But, really, I’m okay.” She pulls the sheet a bit higher up, draping it around Cinderella’s shoulders to ward away the onset of a wet chill.

“Oh, good,” Cinderella sighs, settling back down. Aqua can feel her smile pressed into her collar, Cinderella’s fingertips tracing the subtle gradient in the skin of Aqua’s arm. Goosebumps rise at the tender touch, and Aqua hides a shiver, resting a hand against Cinderella’s spine. When she gently drags the edges of her claws, Cinderella shivers with a soft hum. 

They share a silent, quiet moment together. Aqua is almost certain that Cinderella is asleep again, when she feels Cinderella press a kiss against her clavicle, and she shifts to prop her chin on Aqua’s chest. 

“What happens now?” Cinderella asks her, gentle and sweet. 

“I…” Aqua sighs. She’d shrug, but that would risk dislodging her partner, and Aqua is loathe for that to happen. She’s so warm and soft and tangled together, Cinderella’s light the natural contrast to the darkness of her new form; Aqua is no fool, though. Physical intimacy is a...a wonderful, new, strange distraction, expression, but no amount of sex can wipe away the weight of their responsibilities. 

“I don’t know,” Aqua says at last. “I’m not sure where to go from here. I…” A lump forms in her throat and she swallows and speaks around it with great difficulty, “I don’t have anywhere to go. I guess to the woods again…”

Cinderella drums her fingertips against Aqua’s shoulder. “Ventus said that a Master Yen Sid would allow you to come to the tower. I don’t know quite what that means, but,” she grins, coyly, “ _ that _ certainly sounds like an invitation to me.”

“Ven said that?” Aqua breathes. “Really? They won’t—”

“I saw them with my own eyes,” Cinderella confirms. “Terra and Ven both. They didn’t leave until I vowed to find you myself.”

Aqua is glad she’s down on her back already. Had she been standing, she would have fallen over completely.

“The real question is how you’re going to get there,” Cinderella continues, frowning slightly in thought. There’s a shadow of pain in her eyes that makes Aqua mirror the expression, but in concern. “I never really...knew how you three traveled here in the first place…”

“Master Eraqus opened the Lanes Between. We used our Keyblades for the rest…” Aqua tilts her head. “But I don’t think we’d be able to go that way. I don’t have my Keyblade anymore. I gave Stormfall to Terra, and Master Eraqus reclaimed his…”

“Do you think,” Cinderella begins haltingly, “you could use a Corridor of Darkness, instead?”

Aqua shudders in habitual revulsion at the notion. 

“It makes sense. You’ve some traits of a Heartless,” Cinderella says carefully, “and I know you’re strong enough to open the rifts for it. If it’s you, Aqua, you’ll be able to get there in no time.”

“I don’t know if I could risk you like that.” Aqua scowls. “What if I ended up taking us somewhere completely different? Or Xehanort interfered, somehow, tried to pry you away in transit...” 

The idea of it stirs her darkness like a tiger prodded awake, snarling and angry. It makes her want to crawl over Cinderella like a dragon over its hoard of gold. She’d rend the old bastard limb from limb on principle, but if Xehanort steps on the same  _ World _ as Cinderella, Aqua would make sure there was nothing left of him. She’d happily feed him his own eyes if he so much as  _ looks at her _ —

“Aqua, you wouldn’t.” Cinderella says simply. “I’ll simply keep a low profile here and wait for you to return.”

Aqua sits up suddenly, her arms keeping Cinderella pressed tight against her front. There’s a current of energy rolling under her skin, wicked as lightning, hot as fire, shackling her heart.

“You think I’m leaving you behind?” Aqua asks between grit teeth.

“W-won’t you?” Cinderella blinks slowly in surprise, eyes wide. She smells of rain and growing things, searing Light, but not fear. Not even as Aqua’s clawed hands grasp tightly at her back, legs bracketing her hips as they huddle, naked, on the settee with the sheet pooling around their waists. “I mean...surely, I’d only get in the way.”

“Who told you that?!” The words come out in a growl. “They’re  _ wrong _ .”

“It was only an assumption! It’s not like I know how to fight, Aqua, I’ve no training,” Cinderella says. Her arms wind around Aqua’s neck, hands stroking over her shoulders. Aqua’s aware of strange, angry noises rolling around in her throat and stops as soon as she becomes aware of them. She is— _ trembling _ . 

But Cinderella soothes back the fury and the fear in turn, until Aqua is left behind with frayed nerves and instincts she can’t comprehend.

“I’ll protect you,” Aqua rumbles, burying her face against Cinderella’s marked throat. She desperately sucks in air, drowns her lingering rancour away with Cinderella’s scent. “If anyone’s getting in the way, it’s  _ me _ . I can’t use a Keyblade anymore. What use would they have for me…” 

Cinderella is quiet, and after another squeeze, she carefully pulls back. Aqua whines in her throat, loathe to break even that contact, but Cinderella’s palms find her cheeks soon after. Aqua closes her eyes as she leans her forehead against Cinderella’s and focuses on breathing, feeling her blood simmer. 

“Wait here,” Cinderella whispers. She leaves Aqua’s embrace after that, wrapping the sheet around her naked form as she shuffles for her abandoned apron, crouching down to ruffle through the pockets. Aqua, greedy and prickly, watches her closely, rakes her eyes over the elegant curve of Cinderella’s spine, the austere cut of her shoulder blades moving beneath passion-marked skin. 

Aqua swallows, and in an effort to distract herself before her traitor’s body reacts, gets up and moves to the pile of their soaked clothing. A simple Fire and Aero spell woven together tumbles the mess in a quick pop of magic. It leaves their clothes a little wrinkled, and a scorch mark on the floor, but neither stop Aqua from redressing. 

She leaves the cloth wrappings and sleeves behind, as the hems are too tattered and ruined for her taste, and makes sure to lay out Cinderella’s skirts and tunic over the arm of the settee. 

“Found it,” Cinderella whispers.

Aqua turns to her and promptly loses her breath. Cinderella stands just three feet from her, one arm holding the sheet modestly to her chest, the other stretched toward Aqua. In that beseeching hand sits Ventus’s Wayfinder, the green glass shimmering with magic, with Light. It twinkles, as playful as the boy she crafted it for, and Aqua stumbles in her haste to touch it. Her fingers shake as she splays them open, letting Cinderella drop the Wayfinder in her hand and gently covering Aqua’s weak fingers with her own, coaxing them closed. 

“Maybe you can’t be of ‘use’,” Cinderella says, her voice soft and sweet. Aqua closes her eyes, the sound a drug. “But whether or not you were ‘useful’ was never important to them. They were looking for  _ you _ . Ven said that you had to bring back his lucky charm, after all.” 

A ragged inhale. Aqua squeezes her eyes shut and lifts her other hand to cover Cinderella’s, cradling the Wayfinder between them. Her head bows and she struggles to breathe. 

She’d worked so hard on them, between researching the star shaped fruit and how to correctly shape the glass, how to color it, how to craft the frames to hold it all together—not to mention the hours she’d poured into the magic spell and how to anchor it correctly. She’d snuck the project in between her own training, working on the charms frantically in the night when everyone else was long asleep. Aqua remembers the prototypes discarded on her work bench, dozens of rough drafts and planning, even more sleepless nights in her haste to make something special for them. 

She also remembers, very keenly, at how Terra and Ven had been less than enthused upon their gifts. She remembers the bitterness that crept up on her when she rolled the memories in her head in the Realm of Darkness, of how that final night spent beneath the stars had been tarnished.  _ They didn’t appreciate you enough _ , her Phantom had once spat. 

That last, stinging ache that Aqua hadn’t even known she’d still been carrying suddenly heals. This is as much proof of her boys—her  _ family _ —wanting her back, as Cinderella’s kiss had been. 

“I dried your clothes,” Aqua finally manages to rasp, her voice little more than a breath squeezed from her throat. “You should get dressed. We can’t keep them waiting for much longer. I...I want to see them again…”

Cinderella  _ beams _ at her, pride shining from her eyes as she draws her hand from between Aqua’s, and drops the sheet to cup Aqua’s face and kiss the air out of her lungs. Aqua smiles against Cinderella’s mouth, cupping Ven’s Wayfinder against her chest. They part, and Cinderella pads to get dressed while Aqua closes her eyes, focusing solely on the charm in her hands and coaxing the embers of her heart into life.

The Wayfinder pulses once, twice, and heats up in her grip as it begins to shine spring green and bright. On the far off horizon, she sees a soft glimmer of orange light. She hears a soft gasp from Cinderella, and the radiant cerulean of her own Wayfinder means it answers her mental command, the spells woven over each charm responding to her call. 

Aqua’s ears twitch at the ghost of sound. Invisible chains rattling somewhere within, connecting her to the others. 

They each have their own scents; Eraqus smells like the castle back at the Land of Departure, armor polish tang and iron and the bamboo mats of his study. Terra and Ventus smell like crisped sage and clover, heavy, charred earth and delicate floral sweetness. 

Like  _ home _ .

Her fingertips start to tingle, and when Aqua opens her eyes again she recognizes the strange, pulling sensation from long ago. When she was thrashing in the Realm of Darkness, sinking into the abyss, she’d reached out and crawled free by following Cinderella’s call. Months ago, when she’d been chasing Ventus’s ghost, she’d ripped open another Corridor of Darkness out of sheer desperation.

Aqua looks down at her arms, finds them outlined in violet light, ebony smoke. The Darkness purrs as she slides it over her like a coat, but it makes no move to eclipse her reasoning. It merely stays on the surface, ready to follow her orders. It’s as humbling as it is intoxicating, especially when Cinderella joins her by the door of the manor without hesitation, her arm slipping through one of Aqua’s and laying her head on Aqua’s shoulder.

“Are you ready?” Aqua asks Cinderella softly. 

“Yes,” is the immediate reply. 

With a deep breath, Aqua pulls Ven’s Wayfinder over her head to free up a hand, and reaches out with it, fingers and claws curling to grasp onto something. She keeps her destination in mind, following her heart and her nose, remembers how she'd used her Keyblade to open up the Lanes Between. Cinderella trusts her to do this; the Masters trust her, too.

She concentrates on the hearts of Eraqus, Ventus, Terra. The air around them shimmers with magic, and Cinderella’s Light begins to respond, reaching up to shelter her skin in a thin layer. When it makes contact with the Darkness of Aqua’s aura it twines around it and doesn’t react further than that. Encouraged, Aqua shrugs Cinderella’s hands off to hold her by the waist instead, pulling them hip to hip.

The Wayfinder around Cinderella's throat glows ever so slightly brighter in response. Aqua tightens her grip on Cinderella, and after a heartbeat, feels her claws  _ sink _ into the air, and the boundary opens up for her, the Corridor blossoming. Aqua stares at it for a second more, adjusts her grip on Cinderella, and leaps through. She feels the Corridor seal behind the two of them, but it doesn't spark any fear. 

This...feels  _ safe _ , as strange as it is to admit. Aqua doesn't need her armor to protect her from that which she's already become, and Cinderella repels the corrosive Darkness naturally. There are no stars to guide them, or sights to see, simply shifting shadows and unnaturally shaped bodies watching as one of their own drifts through.

Aqua winces as she feels the familiar static crackle of a barrier washing over her skin, the brief sensation of probing needles sparking against her face—

Then it allows them through. 

The Corridor opens before them again and Aqua glides them out into a soft touchdown of a landing, Cinderella letting out soft  _ whew. _ Their shoes sink into the soft grass of the Mysterious Tower, the permanent twilight sky and array of stars a counterpoint to the sweet smell of petrichor. It takes Aqua a minute for her eyes to adjust and then focus, and even longer for her brain to recognize what’s in front of her. 

Her arm falls from Cinderella’s waist. She feels Cinderella’s arms tighten over her shoulders in a brief, encouraging hug, before drifting away. 

Two figures in black and accented plaid sit on the steps of the Tower. They haven’t aged a day from when Aqua last saw the two of them—she isn’t counting their fraught reunion during the Dive inside of her heart, she wasn’t truly herself then, wasn’t  _ ready _ —

Her heart feels like it cramps up as she inhales, sharp and watery and broken. It echoes over the grass, across the distance, and Terra’s nostrils flare a split second before he whips his head up. Ven follows his lead, and then they’re looking at each other, the three of them. Separated by crazed Masters and fate, and Darkness and Light, by schemes and their own terrible words and a few dozen feet of grass. 

_ Move _ ! Roars Aqua’s heart. It pounds in her chest, pulling her towards her home, the weary wolf ready to return to its pack.

Terra shoots to his feet, mouth flapping open and closed. His eyes are shining wet already, Aqua can smell the salt from here. He’s no longer the broad-shouldered boy unused to his newfound strength, no longer struggling beneath the weight of his Darkness or expectations of his worth. 

Ven scrambles forward, tripping over his own feet and digging his fingers into the dirt to haul his slender body on all fours. A stumble, arms pinwheeling to find his balance—still young, all gangly limbs and teenage exuberance—but then Ven’s running straight for her. The smile on his face takes Aqua’s breath away; he’d always been closer to Terra than her, so she’d thought. 

“Aqua!” Ven shouts, voice breaking like the waves over her name. “ _ Aqua! _ ” 

“You’re here,” Terra breathes and it’s only her keen hearing that picks it up. He takes one slow step forward and then he launches forward into an all out sprint himself.

Her knees tremble.  _ I was such an idiot,  _ Aqua thinks to herself.  _ How could I have ever doubted them? _

_ They love me. _

_ I love them. _

“—boys. My boys.” Her knees knock and Aqua almost buckles under the weight of emotions pressing on her shoulders, smothering her heart in rapture. Another trembling step, but then Aqua’s running to meet her boys, the three of them on a collision course that’s going to hurt but she doesn’t  _ care _ at  _ all _ because they’re  _ here _ they’re real and safe and  _ here _ !

“ _ My boys! _ ” Aqua half laughs, half sobs. Her arms open to catch them. 

(She will always,  _ always _ catch them.)

She and Ven practically tackle each other, her arms clamping over his ribs as she nearly hauls him up off the ground with a sob that comes out a battle cry. Ven flings his legs around her own and hooks his ankles together behind her knees, his arms so tight around her neck as he tries not to hyperventilate into her neck. 

A split second later Terra barrels them over, easily lifting their feet of the ground in an uncoordinated spin that sends them into a pile on the ground. Aqua  _ squawks  _ when it makes one of Ven’s boney elbows dig into her diaphragm, Terra’s knee jabbing awkwardly against a kidney. She can already feel the bruises on her chest and arms, but she’ll be damned thrice over if she cares at all. Ven is clinging onto her and laughing through tears, face buried against her shoulder and neck as they lay on Terra, who fists his hand in Aqua’s hair—

(She tenses for a split second, heart stuttering, remembering Terra with silver hair and Xehanort’s twisted grin, choking the life out of her.) 

—but he’s tender, he’s careful, he’s cupping the back of her head and holding her still so he can press a dry kiss to her forehead and lingers there, inhaling with a shudder that wracks his enormous frame. He whimpers on the exhale, clutching her and Ven tighter, like he’ll  _ die _ if he loses them again. Aqua can sympathize, and from the way Ventus clutches at the back of her top and the lapels of Terra’s new jacket, so can he. 

“H-hey,” Ven says after a moment, his breath shuddering in and out of his mouth. His voice is a wet, bubbling thing that sounds strangled, the whites of his eyes as pink as the tip of his nose. 

“Hi,” Aqua croaks. She slams her eyes shut and kisses Ven right between his eyes, burying her face in his hair a second later. Her own eyes burn with tears that she should be shedding, but can’t seem to, not yet; at least Terra will cry for the both of them, as he always does.

“I cannot  _ believe _ you,” Terra manages to wheeze. The weight of her and Ven must be crushing his lungs, but Terra makes no move to let either of them move away. “Me and Ven looked through that World top to bottom to find you, for  _ weeks _ , and Cinderella finds you in an hour?”

“I—” Aqua swallows. 

“Still such a stupid sucker for pretty girls, huh?” Terra teases, grinning down at her. He’s got grey in his hair and his eyes are darker, there’s a scar peeking over from the collar of his shirt from where Xehanort pierced his chest, but it’s undeniably Terra teasing her all over again.

“It was longer than an hour,” Aqua snaps defensively. And it’s true, sort of. Well. Maybe not, actually, now that Aqua’s thinking about it. Does being ‘found’ count if they spent  _ far _ longer than an hour— _ hm. _ —’reuniting’? 

Terra takes another sniff, and his eyes just about bulge out of his head. 

“Wait,” he says, voice harsh in a familiar way, and Aqua’s blood runs cold, “you  _ son of a bitch _ , you made us worry while you were off having—”

Aqua reacts like any good sister would and cracks her head into Terra’s chin before he can finish his sentence. They both shout in pain and Terra benches her and Ven both, flinging them off of his body and clutching at his mouth. Aqua rolls to make sure she lands on her back instead of on Ventus, then lets Ventus go to hold the back of her head and mutter,  _ “shit, shit, shit, bitch! _ ” under her breath. 

Ven, for his part, rolls away from her and puts his face down in the grass. “You ruined it,” Ven whines, his voice muffled. “Some grown ups.  _ We were having a moment _ .” 

The normalcy makes Aqua’s rattled nerves settle just as the pain in her head settles into a dull, forgettable ache. She hears soft footfalls and opens her eyes, finding Cinderella standing over her with an endeared smile. She’s been crying too, Aqua notes, probably out of empathy. 

Aqua feels the emotions rising up inside of her again, soft as clouds. Flustered, she hauls herself up to her feet and ruffles her hair, shedding bits of grass. 

“Okay,” Terra says, sitting up after a moment, rubbing his chin. “Alright. Sorry, I should have been more...uh, tactful, I guess.”

“I...shouldn’t have hid.” Aqua rubs at her arm, grimacing. “It wasn’t a...conscious decision, not really. I wasn’t really thinking much. It was genuinely coincidence that Cinderella found me as fast as she did.”

“I spent months building a connection with Aqua’s heart when I was cleansing the foreign Darkness from her,” Cinderella fills in as Ventus rolls back over, swiping his arm under his running nose, only wilting slightly over Aqua’s scolding stare. “That’s the only reason I was able to track her down. And even then, it’s only because she let me.”

Cinderella looks down at her feet at that, lips twitching. The misunderstanding that spiraled into...literally  _ everything else _ still feels awkwardly tender to prod at so soon. Aqua offers comfort by drawing Cinderella in by her waist. 

“I don’t think I was ready,” Aqua says after a moment. “But Cinderella told me that I had to give Ven back his lucky charm.”

She takes off the Wayfinder as Ven hops to his feet, handing it over. She smiles when Ven takes his Wayfinder with tender enthusiasm, practically beaming down at the charm like it’s a great treasure. Aqua stands a little straighter when he turns that bright smile on her next. 

“I’m—” Ven giggles softly, wiping the last of his tears off on his shoulder. “I’m really glad to see you’re okay, Aqua. I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m...I’m glad to be back,” Aqua says slowly, as if testing the truth of her own words. To her delight, they remain honest. “And I’m ready to help fight Xehanort, however I can.”

“We’d better get you up to Master Yen Sid then,” Terra says. He offers out his hand and Aqua takes it with a clap. Ven’s hand settles over them a second later, and Aqua lets the pride and joy fill her up. She can feel the smile on her face, Cinderella resting her head on Aqua’s shoulder. 

\--

 

The first thing she sees open entering is Master Yen Sid's severe, neutral expression. Instinctively she clutches Cinderella—who she’d had to pick up halfway up the stairs, not that Aqua minds in the least—tighter to her chest. It’s a testament to Cinderella’s exhaustion that the queen does not stir. Aqua’s eyes dart to the right of the Master Yen Sid’s, sturdy desk and she finds Master Eraqus and Mickey— _ King _ Mickey now, apparently—waiting there too. Master Eraqus’s expression breaks as he seems to sway on his feet, eyes misty; Mickey’s ears perk and the tip of his tail flicks up high, over-expressive in his joy. 

“Y-you're back!” Mickey says as Terra shuts the door behind them. “Are you okay, Aqua?!”

“Yes,” Aqua answers carefully. Master Yen Sid’s eyes close and there’s the barest smile tugging on his lips, tearing apart the tension. It inspires her own lazy grin. “I'm back. I'm...sorry, if I worried you.”

“Frankly, you don't need to apologize for anything,” Eraqus says, his voice the same hoarse and firm cadence that she'd grown up hearing. “I knew you would come back to us when you were ready.”

“I’m...I’m touched by your faith, Master,” Aqua nearly whispers.  _ Father _ had nearly left her lips, but that feels too intimate a declaration to make in front of two Keyblade Masters.

“Gosh, I feel bad now,” Mickey says, rubbing the back of his head. “As nice as it is to see you again, Aqua, I was just about to head on out to check on Sora and Riku’s training with the Power of Waking...”

Aqua blinks. She has...no idea what any of that means, and it sounds like a story and half to be told later on. Surely, everything will make sense then. 

“That’s alright. I understand. Tell them I said hello? And, most of all, thank you.”

“You got it, Aqua. Goodbye for now!”

As King Mickey takes his leave, waving jovially, Master Yen Sid folds his hands over his desk and poised to address the room. Aqua finds herself straightening her back at natural attention. 

“It pleases me beyond measure to see you back with us, Master Aqua,” Master Yen Sid begins. “This is good news, and it does not stop there. I see you have brought one of the Seven Lights with you as well.”

“She has nowhere else to go,” Aqua says, and clutches Cinderella's sleeping body closer. “I...I am  _ her _ guardian. Where she goes, I go.”

“I understand,” Master Yen Sid rumbles, dipping his head in acknowledgement. There is no anger for her speaking out of turn or insubordination, which is a relief.  “I was hoping you would say that.”

“Oh?” Aqua raises a brow in suspicion.

“You can no longer use your Keyblade, is that right, Master Aqua?”

Aqua flinches, but bears the shame easily. Somehow, it's easier, with Cinderella in her arms and Master Eraqus nodding, like he already knows, already accepts, and isn't disappointed with her at all. Ventus and Terra only offer compassion in their expressions. So she's able to answer Master Yen Sid with pride.

“No. I haven't tried, yet, but I don't think I'll be able to. The last time I tried to summon Stormfall and my armor, it felt like something was blocking them from coming to me. Now, I doubt they'd answer.” Aqua keeps her shoulders back, her chin high. Terra looks briefly thoughtful. “And I'm okay with that. I'll..adapt, to this. What's done is done. Xehanort needs to be taken down before anything else, so I’ll do whatever I can do to help.”

“You've sacrificed so much already,” Ventus says, his posture sagging. “It's not fair. I'm sure we can figure out how to—to change you back! Before it settles—”

“It already has, Ven. I can feel it,” Aqua says, gently. Her heart warms at his show of naked concern, love pouring out of him in waves, shouting through their link like a howling storm. She's never seen him so vulnerable, not since they began their training. It's comforting. She looks to Master Eraqus next. “Did you find any information on...what I am?”

Her Master’s face grows stern, brows furrowing deep in thought. Aqua realizes he looks so much more weary than she’s ever seen him before, the wrinkles in his face deeper, his hair a little thinner. It’s a little scary to see him like that.

“Only bits and pieces,” Master Eraqus answers. “Your...condition is a rare one, perhaps the only case of its kind. Long ago, when there were Keyblade wielders aplenty, those who succumbed to their darkness became a Heartless known as a Darkling.” 

Aqua shudders. She’d known she’d been changed, but having a name to put to her half human state is rather unnerving. 

“From what I managed to restore, the Darklings retained some semblance of intelligence, though little sense of their selves,” Master Eraqus continues. “And, obviously, they could not wield their Keyblades again.”

“Well, Aqua’s still as smart as ever,” Terra offers. “Maybe she  _ can _ wield a Keyblade.” 

“I don’t think it works like that, Terra,” Aqua says softly. “I didn’t... _ use _ my Darkness. I...I became it.”

“And no doubt your imprisonment in the Realm of Darkness exposed you to more sinister magics than we could ever know of,” Master Yen Sid adds. “I cannot say for certain if the Keyblade will ever return to you, Master Aqua.” 

“It’s alright,” Aqua says quietly. “In that case, I’m not really a ‘master’ anymore, am I--”

“Bullshit,” Terra snaps. “You earned the title of a Keyblade Master! You deserve to keep it!” 

“I am inclined to agree,” Master Yen Sid says before Aqua can respond properly. “However, your newfound state does pose a slight problem, despite its powerful advantages. I suppose you do not know of Xehanort and his Real Organization Thirteen?”

“You might have to start at the beginning,” Aqua says slowly.

“Very well. To keep it as simple as possible, Xehanort is gathering thirteen vessels to implant pieces of his own heart to control them. The candidates of these vessels were beings who had a natural inclination toward Darkness, vulnerable to its influences; these include the Nobodies of his own Nobody’s former Organization Thirteen, though we have reason to believe that they have been recompleted and their hearts possessed instead—”

“Whoa, whoa, I’m sorry Master. I don’t...understand. What’s a Nobody? And how, exactly, is Xehanort doing this?”

“Oh boy,” Terra mutters quietly. 

“Not this again,” Ven whispers. “I didn’t get it the  _ first _ three times…”

It takes a while. So much that Master Yen Sid ends up conjuring chairs for them to sit in, Aqua still cradling Cinderella close, absentmindedly petting over her hair as she listens to the explanations of what, exactly, Nobodies are and why Xehanort needed them. Of Xehanort’s madness in splitting his heart, of time travel and gaslit fear mongering, things that make Aqua’s head spin and her guts churn.

“‘On that land, Darkness will prevail and the Light expire’,” Master Yen Sid says of the prophecy. “He requires seven Lights to equal the thirteen Darknesses, and together they will form his χ-blade. If we do not come up with seven Guardians of Light, he will target the Princesses instead.”

This must have been what Cinderella had learned all those months ago, Aqua realizes. She shivers hard when Master Yen Sid describes a Seeker caught in the grips of Xehanort’s possession— _ gold eyes, silver hair… _ —and instantly she fully, wholly forgives Cinderella’s paranoia. Can  _ feel _ the mend in her heart, where Cinderella’s portrait on her station had been cracked. Out of affection and a simple desire to give comfort, Aqua succumbs to the urge to press a kiss against Cinderella's brow, gently rousing her in the process. 

Cinderella gives a sleepy murmur of Aqua’s name, briefly snuggling closer, until a hum of contentment leaves her throat as Cinderella draws her head up. She blinks slow and sleepily at the gathered assembly.

“Mm—how long was I asleep?” Cinderella rasps.

“Not very long,” Aqua says softly, standing from the chair to set Cinderella down on her feet. She brushes Cinderella’s bangs off of her face, sighing sweetly when Cinderella presses the apple of her cheek against Aqua’s palm in utter trust. “An hour or two, at the most.”

There's a bit of silence. Aqua stiffens slightly as she realizes that they are not  _ quite _ so alone, and it hits Cinderella at about the same time. They look back out towards their audience; Eraqus's brows have lifted to his hairline, while Terra is trying  _ very _ hard not to look at either of them. Master Yen Sid seems to take it all in stride—he might even be smiling just a bit, it's hard to tell with him.

“Good morning, Cinderella!” Ventus greets cheerfully. “Hey, I forgot to ask. What's with those bruises on your neck?”

 

Aqua opens her mouth to answer, cheeks burning, when a thick tome on Master Yen Sid’s desk begins to rattle and shake before the cover springs open. There comes a great explosion of magic as the room floods with sweet smelling smoke. 

Aqua sweeps Cinderella behind her, claws curling as she gathers crimson lightning in her hands with a chest deep snarl. Terra and Ventus summon their Keyblades, readying for battle, as a somewhat familiar voice follows with a few coughs interrupting here and there.

“Aha, yes, madame, as you will see your young ward and our esteemed not-quite-so-human Keyblade master are—if I read my charts correctly—certainly, and without a doubt, here in this very room.”

“It's not like we can see anything in all this smoke!” a girl's voice shouts. “Why do you always do this, Master?!”

“Don’t breathe in too deep,” comes a slightly younger man’s cautioning. “This shit’ll fry your lungs to a crisp, got it memorized?”

“The deadliest vape.  _ Master why do you do this. _ ”

“One can hardly have a proper, dramatic entrance without smoke, children! Really, after a year and a half of training, you’d be used to it—” A sizzling zap, and the smoke vanishes in a whirlwind instant. 

Standing, clustered together, are Princess Aurora's three fairies, Cinderella's Godmother, an old wizard, and two redheads sheltering a girl in a white dress between them. At the sight of Aqua—or perhaps Aqua and the other two Keyblade wielders with their blades out—the redheads spring into action, summoning Keyblades of their own and  _ screaming _ .

Terra and Ventus scream in response. Aqua flinches at the loud noises and aims her hands at both groups out of instinct, hackles raised.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” the girl in pink shouts, waving the Keyblade's point back and forth between Aqua and the boys, each swing punctuating the words. “Everybody chill the  _ fuck _ out!”

“ _ You _ chill out!” Ventus yelps, flipping Wayward Wind around in his hand.

“Don't shout at her!” the taller redhead barks indignantly, his Keyblade flaring with a rush of heat.

“Don't shout at  _ him! _ ” Terra demands. “It's us, you idiots!”

“ _ Who you callin' an idiot?! _ ” demands the girl. She makes a move to lunge forward, and is stopped only by the blonde grabbing onto her waist.

“ **_Enough_ ** _! _ ” Master Yen Sid commands, waving his hands to opposite sides. The four Keyblade wielders are sent flying to the walls, the little blonde spared Master Yen Sid’s magical assault, and remain plastered there with solid force. Master Eraqus has his face in his hands. “Are you all  _ finished? _ ”

Everyone takes a minute or two to settle down, and as soon as they mumble an assortment of  _ yes _ and  _ sorry, Master, _ and  _ Ah geeze this shitty coat’s giving me a wedgie, _ they're released from the spell. Aqua still levels the newcomers with a baleful glare, knuckles cracking as she prepares to spring—or run. There's something familiar about the girl in pink, something about her voice or the light she carries—

“Now, now,” says the Fairy Godmother, holding her hands outward and cutting Aqua’s revelation to a halt. “There's no need for violence or raised voices. We are all friends here. Now! Where is my sweet girl?”

“Godmother?” Cinderella gasps. She moves around Aqua's body, peeking over her shoulder. “Is that really you?”

“Hello, dear,” the godmother greets warmly, spreading her arms open in welcome. “Come here. It’s been far, far too long!”

Cinderella wastes no time, darting to the old woman in soft blue robes. Although Cinderella is at least a head or two taller, she looks small in the tight embrace; Cinderella shakes slightly, sniffling against her fairy godmother’s shoulder. 

It's a private moment as any, and seeing as there’s no danger Aqua turns her face away as the two of them begin to  murmur to each other. She finds herself distracted soon enough, anyway. The girl in pink slowly approaches her while the pendant at her neck pulses in greeting. Aqua recognizes the spell immediately, and the girl with it.

“...Kairi,” Aqua acknowledges with a soft gasp. “Sorry...I didn't recognize you at first. I'm still adjusting.”

“Hey, that’s—that's okay,” Kairi says softly. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides and she shuffles in place. “Can I be real with you?”

“Um.” Aqua puzzles over the slang. “Yes?”

“Is—is it okay if I hug you?”

“Ah, you want to?” Aqua asks in surprise. “Y-yes, if you're sure—”

And Kairi's got both arms around her after she stammers through the 'yes', squeezing tight to force the air out of Aqua’s lungs. The Light inside Kairi rivals Cinderella's, simmering against Aqua with the promise of safety, familiarity. Aqua hesitates before lowering her arms from where they raised up defensively, and returns the hug best she can. There’s an unavoidable awkwardness with embracing a veritable stranger, but Aqua can deal.

Kairi lets go after a moment in any case, holding Aqua out at arm's length with shiny eyes.

“I guess my pendant didn't want to stay with you,” Kairi says sadly. Aqua remembers keenly from that moment in her own heart, where Kairi had presented both the necklace and the Keyblade, and swallows around a lump of emotion. “I tried to leave it with you—”

“You're never meant to lose it, silly.” Aqua lightly ruffles Kairi’s hair. “The spell itself is bound to you. It's yours.”

“But I wanted to protect you too.”

Aqua feels her throat tighten again. With effort, she says hoarsely, “It's the Master's job to protect her apprentice. Though I suppose I'm a few years too late.”

“Just the one year and some odd months,” Kairi jokes lightly. “Merlin's pretty good, but I'm down to get some real training from a real Keyblade master. At least until I’m out for Keyblade War the Sequel.”

“Way to downplay the end of the worlds, pipsqueak,” says the taller redhead. 

“About that…,” Aqua says with a frown, looking over Kairi without the haze of endeared nostalgia. Does the Princess of Heart show that much promise? Even after a year and a half of training? Aqua looks toward Eraqus and Master Yen Sid, and gets her answer in the grim set of their mouths.

“...A Princess of Heart as one of the seven Guardians?” Aqua says slowly. “Is that  _ wise _ ?”

“Hey, I’m Lights two-fold!” Kairi poses, flexing an arm. “It's a big job, but one badass redhead's gotta do it. Might as well be me, yeah? I mean, have you seen that skinny twink?” She thumbs over her shoulder to the bored looking man in a black cloak leaning against the wall. Upon noticing he’s been referred to, lifts a hand in a lazy greeting. 

“He’d totally beef it if he was stuck with the dress,” Kairi continues.

“I would work that shit and you know it,” he scoffs.

“With  _ what _ , Lea, your whole  _ one _ bone-plane of an ass?”

“What does that even mean?!” 

“Did you and Aqua swear this much when you two started training?” Aqua hears Ven ask Terra.

“...I'd be happy to teach you what I can, Kairi,” Aqua says softly, grabbing her successor’s attention back on track, “but I don’t have a Keyblade anymore. Magic is all I can offer.” 

Aqua flusters a little under the weight of the exhilarated grin that's thrown her way in return. It’s like getting hit in the face with high noon sunshine. She grunts a little when Kairi pulls her back into another hug, deceptively strong arms nearly hauling her off the ground.

“You can keep Lea, Merlin!” Kairi informs impishly. “Master Aqua's totally stealing me away.”

“Well, if I must then I simply must!” Merlin says while Lea rolls his eyes. “Now, if you will release your new teacher while I get to work on my next project? Honestly, I should be charging you all rent for all the pocket dimensions I’ve had to whip up...”

Kairi blows a raspberry but obeys. Aqua takes the moment to step back properly, eyes instinctively searching for Cinderella; she finds the Godmother conjuring a soft looking shawl to drape around Cinderella’s shoulders, while Cinderella pats at her cheeks with a handkerchief as she nods along to what advice the Godmother gives her. Aqua can't hear them over the ambient noise of the room, so she worries just a second that the Godmother is telling Cinderella to return back to her world, her prince, her marriage. 

The fear dies as Cinderella turns her head and their eyes meet. When Aqua sees them light up in joy, her own heart grows full in her chest, purring against her ribs.  _ She’s happy to see me _ , Aqua thinks to herself in a daze. Cinderella draws the shawl to cover her marked throat, and her smile melts into something intimate and knowing, soft and sweet like summer dusk. In that moment, it feels like no one else in the room exists at all. 

_ Come here _ , Cinderella's eyes whisper, and Aqua's feet move on their own to obey.

She walks toward the Godmother and Cinderella, wrapping an arm around the latter’s waist. There's no mistaking her move as anything less than proprietary, possessive, nor any way to excuse Cinderella's answering claim of Aqua’s shoulder as she tucks her head against it. Aqua actually  _ sighs _ when Cinderella moves her own arm, hooking around Aqua’s back to drum her fingers against Aqua’s ribs.

“I was just telling her about us,” Cinderella says quietly, hesitantly. “I...hope that's not too forward?”

“N-Not at all.” Aqua eyes the shawl, woven with care and magic, and then to the Godmother who only smiles at her becomingly—even approvingly. That makes her do a double take; “I—It's good to see you. Again. I...I guess I couldn't exactly fight the Darkness my way after all. I should have taken your lessons to heart.”

“Now, now, don't disparage yourself, my dear. You were cheated! You did not deserve what happened to you at all,” Godmother says firmly.

Aqua shivers a little, still unused to hearing such support, or the antithesis of her years of training. Mostly she's had to contend herself with her own thoughts—and she knows better than to trust those half the time. Hearing validation from others helps her, shores up a little more confidence. 

“Thank you,” Aqua murmurs, bowing her head. “I hope to—to become better, than I am.”

“Better than what? Changed by darkness? Oh, child. What is darkness but the light's natural companion? It's when others start to meddle in affairs of the natural order that either force becomes something to truly fear.” The Godmother smirks conspiratorially, leaning in to whisper, “I wager that Cinderella hasn't had such a pretty shadow before, either.”

“G-Godmother!” Cinderella stammers.

“Girl, you have been married—” The Godmother startles as Aqua snarls deeply at that reminder, but recovers swiftly, “—and divorced, smartly. Why the fluster! You're both still so young, it's natural.”

“Speaking of which,” Merlin interjects as politely as he's capable, hovering over the tome on Master Yen Sid’s desk, “How am I to assign rooms, eh? One for one? Two to one? How about beds, twinsies, queens, doubles—”

“Dibs on Naminé!” Kairi immediately exclaims, grabbing onto the blonde's hand with both of her own. “Two beds, please!”

“Solo, much obliged,” Lea drawls.

“You should make Sora and Riku bunk together,” Ventus adds mischievously. “I bet  _ that'll _ end up with something interesting.”

“Aqua and I will room together,” Cinderella says smoothly. “A king sized bed, if that's no trouble? Just the one.”

Aqua wishes she had her blue hair back. That might hide some of the more prominent color rushing to her cheeks as Cinderella smirks in quiet victory. She swears she sees Eraqus give her a thumbs up, but that's...utterly preposterous.

After Eraqus, Ventus, and Terra put in requests for separate rooms; it's assumed a boy named Roxas will want his own, and Sora and Riku will share one. Merlin and the Godmother both leave to get to work on the tower's “expansion”, while Master Yen Sid dismisses everyone for supper. 

They travel in a pack, heading down a spiraling staircase and into an inconceivably enormous chamber. The long table sits exactly the number of their party; Aqua sits by her family and finds Cinderella at her left, Ven, Terra, and Master Eraqus in a line on her right. 

Steaming dishes piled with meat, rice, and vegetables float from the open doors of a kitchen and settle themselves; lively conversation from all sources wraps around her as the utensils and napkins follow, the silverware setting themselves politely and the napkins unfurling and floating to rest on their laps.

Aqua absorbs it in silence, watching Kairi and Cinderella trade gossip, Lea and Ventus exchanging carrots for broccoli. Naminé talks avidly to Terra, gesturing with her hands—something about charcoal and canvas, from what Aqua can pick up—and Terra nods along with her, brows drawn in contemplation and asking about the proper use of watercolors. Eraqus and Master Yen Sid eat in meditative silence, watching over the troupe, while the three good fairies begin a quiet but heated debate about colors.

It feels...very much normal. 

Aqua stares down at her own hands, food untouched so far, marveling at the peace. The lack of fear. The total acceptance.

She is...or was? In the process of becoming a Heartless, a  _ Darkling _ , supposedly. She is not meant to exist, in one form or the other, and yet here she is with her carmine tipped claws and her navy arms and her gold, sunken eyes, folded into the embrace of the Guardians without a second thought.

Before arriving, she was terrified of being seen as a stranger, at best, or a threat to be put down at worst, and yet here she is, about to enjoy a nice, familiar meal among the people she loves and people she’s just met.

Aqua picks up her utensils and starts to eat in slow, polite bites. She needs to have something to do so she doesn't end up crying like a sap.

Her heart, despite it all, stirs fondly. It stretches like a sleeping beast in her chest. Out of habit Aqua feels out toward Cinderella first, feels the immediate response as Cinderella's heart touches her own, sending soft waves of comfort down the chain of their connection. Aqua jumps a little when one of Cinderella's hands comes to rest idly on her thigh, just above her stocking; goes completely still when the warmth of Cinderella’s palm pets back and forth, fingertips dragging against the inside of her thigh.

Aqua swallows her mouthful of baked pork chop and rice with difficulty. The knife shakes a bit in her hand as Cinderella, while talking to Kairi with an utterly nonchalant smile and nodding along to the conversation, skates her hand to hem on the leg of Aqua’s shorts, and then back to her stocking’s beginning. Over and over. And over—

Aqua can't be blamed for where her mind spirals. Or the requested  _ single bed... _ or how proudly, boldly, even, Cinderella had been promoting how they were  _ together. _ No shame at all. No hesitation. In the most polite way, Cinderella had staked utter, ruinous claim in front of some of the most powerful people Aqua’s even known.

_ She is mine _ , Cinderella had said with a smile. Her hand drifts higher, over the harsh muscle of Aqua’s thigh to her hip.  _ And so is this, _ says her hand. 

_ Oh, fuck _ . Aqua quickly grabs Cinderella's hand as she tries to hide her flustered expression behind her bangs. Still, Aqua manages to give Cinderella’s hand a little squeeze to show that she's not angry—just overwhelmed. Cinderella has the gall to chuckle knowingly under her breath.

Ventus is mid joke when he looks up into nothing and hisses between his teeth. “Roxas is here,” he murmurs. “I gotta go.”

_ That _ snaps her out of her daze. As if doused in cold water, Aqua looks over to see Ventus excusing himself, shoveling one last mouthful of rice down before his plate is whisked away.

“Why?” she demands, a little too loudly. Her stomach turns and twists; she just got him  _ back! _ She will not lose her boy again. “Is he dangerous to you?”  _ I'll ruin him _ , Aqua decides, already feeling the anger surging up and down her spine, prickling in her skin, trembling in her bones.  _ If he poses a threat to you, if he makes you feel bad, I'll kill him myself. _

“No, no! It's more... _ I'm _ dangerous to  _ him. _ “ Ventus sounds genuine, wiping at his mouth with a napkin to be polite. “You'll see what I mean. It's just easier if we're not in the same room when emotions are flying sky-high like they are. I’d just hurt him if he saw me right now, is all.”

“It's true,” Terra confirms, laying a warm palm against her shoulder. She nearly twitches it off, unused to contact like that, but relaxes an instant later beneath the steady weight. Terra’s blue eyes start to lull her as does his expression. “Trust us.”

It takes a moment. It really does. A full three seconds before Aqua finally nods silently. As if to mollify her, Ventus steals a quick hug, stroking over Aqua’s hair, before he hurries out, to 'check on the room situation'. She watches him as he leaves, panicking slightly— _ a ghost my boy's only a ghost not real not— _ but when she tentatively tugs on the chain Naminé strengthened and wove in her heart to connect her to Ventus, she feels a familiar tug back. 

Aqua exhales with effort. That's what makes her relax fully.

“Got a temper there, huh?” Lea comments idly.

Aqua cocks her head curiously, then looks down; her limbs have just started to smoke, flecks of purple-black darkness wisping off of her hands and arms, the outlines shimmering as if losing definition. The fork she held in one hand has completely warped in shape from the death grip she held on it, twisted around her clenched fingers, though the hand in Cinderella's possession is almost slack in comparison. Embarrassed by her lapse, Aqua waves the smoke away and looks Lea in the eye.

“I protect what's mine,” she says simply, almost daring him to comment again.

“Huh.” Lea props his jaw on a hand and says, “Makes sense. I can relate.” 

There's a coldness in his eyes that Aqua recognizes. She remembers seeing it in herself when she was in the Realm of Darkness, catching glimpses of herself when she passed shattered windows from fractured Worlds. The look of someone who has lost and will kill to keep what little they have left.

_ I would kill him _ , Aqua had thought of the mysterious figure of Roxas. She knows Lea would do the same, but to  _ her _ . In that moment they are but two wolves staring each other down, ready to maul each other to death to protect their friends, their loved ones. Ironically enough, Aqua thinks she might start to like Lea more readily.

The tension only lessens slightly when the door to the dining rooms are pushed open. Sora, followed by Riku and a cloaked figure, rush in. King Mickey and, to her surprise, Donald and Goofy are close behind.

“Wh—whoa!  _ Whoa! _ It’s Aqua!” Sora shouts. He smiles with his whole  _ body _ , it seems, and Aqua can’t help but answer with a little one of her own.

“Master Aqua,” Riku greets with equal relief. 

The table rumbles and stretches, chairs popping in bursts of magic to allow them all a place to sit. As plates with food begin to hover out, Sora cheers out a greeting to everyone else, practically lunging over the table to grab Kairi in a half hug, half headlock, welcoming her back from her training. When he sputters,  _ what do you MEAN you’re a year older than me now?! I just visited you a few months ago! _ Aqua tunes out, leaving the boy to his reconnecting. 

The black cloaked figure looks toward her—and though Aqua cannot  _ see _ their eyes, she feels them all the same. 

They size each other up. She knows they’re looking at Aqua’s hair, her eyes. “Master Aqua?” the figure asks in Ven's voice.

Aqua doesn't respond. Cinderella squeezes her hand and says, quietly, “I heard Ventus too.”

“That’s me. Roxas, I assume,” Aqua manages to reply after a moment of silence.

“Yeah.” The figure draws off his hood, and upon first glance, he looks like Ventus almost exactly. But, as Aqua stares him over, there's a drawn sadness to his cheeks, a hardness to his eyes that darkens them. He's a shade paler, his hair darker and an inch shorter, even if it's styled nearly the same way. After a tense moment she sags back in her chair, gives him a nod.

“Nice to meet you, Roxas.”

“...Sure,” he says, arching a brow in surprise. Then he shrugs, steals the new seat by Lea, and digs into his meal without further delay.

Sora tells the entire story in between bites of his meal; Heartless, Nobodies— _ and I thought the Unversed were a pain, _ Aqua thinks as Roxas, Naminé, and Lea take turns explaining what it means to be a Nobody, and how hearts can just  _ grow— _ and why Ventus and Roxas look so much alike. Turns out Sora had sheltered Ventus the entire time, and things just tend make impressions after a while. Something about Kairi’s heart in Sora’s body and self sacrifice and—

_ They were just children _ , Aqua thinks, looking at Sora, Riku, and Kairi.  _ They were just babies. _

When Lea and Roxas talk about the mistreatment of their missing friend Xion, Aqua cannot stay silent any longer, and says without much warning, “I'm still not sure what a Xemnas is but he sounds like a  _ dick, _ ” which has Cinderella choking on her water and Roxas pointing at her.

“See?! Aqua totally gets it and she's never met the guy!” Roxas shouts.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. Can we move on?” Terra grouses. 

Aqua's not sure what Xemnas and the whole 'Ansem Seeker of Darkness' part means for him—his body was the template for Xemnas, but Xehanort's the heart...? Two Ansems? Master Eraqus had been in Terra’s heart too? Holy shit. Aqua's head hurts thinking about it all, honestly—but she knows he's taking the Xemnas parts a little personally. It's sensitive for him.

Oh well. He's just gonna have to suck it up. If Aqua can carry the burden of being half a Heartless, he can take some ribbing.

“He really was, though,” Lea agrees. “A  _ huuuuuge _ dick.”

“An absolute great, big, bag of dicks,” Naminé says politely. Kairi shoots milk out of her nose, banging her fist on the table with cackles.

“Can we not do this at the table,” Riku asks dryly as Sora starts to chant, “ _ Bag of dicks! Bag of dicks! _ ” while hitting the table to emphasize each word.

Dinner ends soon enough, and then Master Yen Sid has the floor with a single clap of his hands. Chatter stops and the mood begins to drift downwards—not a plummet, no, more a grounding—and Aqua straightens up as Eraqus stands by Master Yen Sid's chair.

“We have assembled our seven Guardians of Light,” Master Yen Sid rumbles. “Sora, Master Riku, Kairi; Terra, Ventus; Lea, and Mickey. Roxas, Master Aqua, you must understand why I cannot consider you as Guardians yet?”

“Something to do with our vulnerability to the Darkness, I assume” Aqua answers while Roxas silently nods.

“Correct. Therefore, your roles will be a bit different. And, my Lady,” he addresses Cinderella, to her surprise, “I would ask you aid them, if you are comfortable.”

“M-me?” Cinderella lays the palm of her hand over her chest, startled but brave. “Well of course. I'll help however I can.”

“The remaining Princesses of Heart must be found, gathered, and brought here to protect them,” Master Yen Sid says. “Maleficent and her Heartless horde cannot enter this World—my wards and the barriers will recognize and allow Master Aqua through Dark Corridors only. And once Merlin finishes his work with the secondary tower, even Xehanort will be unable to reach them through Time, nor Space. They will be safest here, leaving Xehanort no choice but to throw the dice on his creation of the χ-blade through battle.”

“I’ll still be on the board, though,” Kairi says, folding her arms. 

“You are a target no matter what we do,” Master Yen Sid says. “Better to have you on the front lines where we can support you. To continue; Aqua, you can access the Corridors of Darkness and remain naturally immune to them. Roxas has his cloak, and Cinderella her heart. You will be able to remain mostly undetected, so long as you work fast.”

“It shouldn't be that hard; if Kairi and I can manage a dive together, no doubt we can contact the other Princesses and give them a warning that we're on the way ahead of time,” Cinderella suggests. “That way we can coordinate.”

“A splendid idea, Cinderella,” Eraqus praises. 

“I can help with that,” Naminé volunteers. “Sora's met all the Princesses before, so that will no doubt ease the dive for the both of you.”

“Then it is settled,” Master Yen Sid hums. “However, Kairi, try not to strain yourself too much; you and Lea will have another, equally important task while we have the time. We must locate the whereabouts of Xion, and ensure her safety.”

“ _ What? _ ” Roxas asks, fists clenching on the table.

“Why Kairi?” Sora asks curiously. “If Xion was first made out of my memories to begin with—shouldn’t I be the one to look for her? I’ll go with Lea! I don’t mind!”

“Kairi and Lea have been training and working together for over a year now,” Eraqus interjects.

“Oh, right,” Sora says, wincing slightly. “Your weird time capsule thing…”

“It’s also possible that there might be some kind of unknown connection formed between Xion and Kairi,” Master Yen Sid says. “As we all know, memories and the heart are closely entwined. Xion’s heart, though encouraged to grow with Lea and Roxas’s help, was first born from memories associated  _ with _ Kairi. We know that Xion’s heart refused to be summoned in Roxas and Sora’s combined presence; perhaps she would feel safer with you and Lea, as kin.”

“Which leaves everyone else ensuring that Xehanort's machinations spread no further than they already have,” finishes Master Eraqus. “Sora, Riku, and King Mickey; seal as many Keyholes as you can, shore up the defenses of the Worlds. We cannot risk them recreating their failed imitations of Kingdom Hearts.”

“That we can do,” King Mickey promises with a salute.

“Then we shall begin on the morrow, after breakfast,” Master Yen Sid proclaims. “There is no time to delay. The sooner we secure the Princesses, the sooner Xehanort will have no choice but to force a confrontation.”

**Author's Note:**

> Updates to come as each chapter is given the all clear from KIBITZER demonhands.


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